The Sound of Snow
by R. S. Swasso
Summary: "When you first get to see your shinki's history, you obviously aren't going to remember every single image. Sure, that was still the case when I first named Yukiné, but I do remember his more vividly than that of any other servant I've ever branded. But what should I expect? Watching the memories of life and death from someone you yourself killed is... not exactly what I'd call fo
1. Foreword

Foreword

Y'all ever think about the time we first met Yukiné and immediately fell for his punk attitude? Ever think about when Yato named him and we caught those teasing flashing glimpses of his life before he died? Well I do. A lot. In fact, I've spent the past three years thinking about it and coming up with this headcanon about who Yukiné was before he was… well, Yukiné.

Let it be said, I am an avid fan of the manga, and good-NIGHT the anime is so missing out! (Seriously, why can't y'all put together a petition to see season three of Noragami with just as much enthusiasm as you have towards trying to see dem aliens???) As a manga reader, I've noticed the latest chapters tauntingly creeping towards what may be a big reveal of Yukiné's canonical past. However, if the manga does end up confessing his true name or his life before death, then I haven't read it as of the writing of this fanfiction. So if you are reading this in the future and you already know the canon version of Yukiné's past life, then just think of this as an AU headcanon from someone who got left waiting for way too long.

And for those of you who have for some ungodly reason only been able to watch the anime (bless your heart,) here's a quick note before you keep reading: The manga reveals this thing called the Gods' Secret. This secret is the memory of a human ghost's life before death. When we saw those flashing glimpses of Yukiné's life, that was the Gods' Secret being transferred from Yukiné's memory into Yato's. When the memories are transferred to the master, the servant can't recall them anymore. This protects the shinki (or regalia, as they are called in the anime) because on almost every occasion when a ghost does remember their own past, the dismay that comes with realizing the pain of their death and missing the life they had is so intense it immediately corrupts and blights them until they become a lost cause, aka an ayakashi (phantom.)

(Also, at the end there is a reference to a character named Sakura who was in the manga but not the anime. Long story short: she was a shinki Yato found and named when he was a kid and it was her goodness that inspired him to reject his "father" who had raised him to be a god of calamity. [Remember that Fujisaki turd guy we all hated because he kissed Hiyori and then in the last episode we found out he was the Crafter aka Yato's parent? Yeah, well, you need to read the manga so you can hate him even more and find out why we manga readers have unanimously dubbed him the endearing nickname "trash dad."])

But I digress. Basically my fanfiction is about how Yukiné lived and died. It's a tragedy, just warning you. And it's told through Yato's perspective as he has received the memories because I sure hope my poor snowflake never remembers these things. I don't want to lose him all over again ,(

P.S. – for those of you wondering, the title is a play on Yukiné's name. The word "yuki" means "snow" in Japanese. And the character used for the "né" which Yato brands all his shinki with translates to "the sound of." So you could say Yukiné means "the sound of snow."

Thank you for your time! I sincerely hope you have as much fun reading as I had writing. God bless!

~ R. S. Swasso


	2. Chapter 1 - “Someday, We’ll Go Together”

Chapter 1:

"Someday, We'll Go Together."

Out of the horde of footage, every scene his eyes ever beheld, the most vivid of Yukiné's early memories that I can recall finds him lying on his belly on the floor of his and his sister's tiny bedroom. In his small hands were a couple of cheap action figures and a plastic car. Immersed in his toys, The Boy rolled around the tatami mats and sitting pillows playing quietly by himself. His ochre eyes were a lot brighter back then, and they danced with the reflection of the sunlight streaming through the glass balcony doors opposite him. The space was small and compact despite there being so few possessions to fill it. One dresser, a sitting desk, and a chest were the only furniture available to the two children. The ugly green and cream wallpaper likewise hung a single shelf full of books and couple family photos.

His parents' low voices outside his open bedroom door grew louder from the kitchenette of the apartment. The Boy heard his name amidst the shouts and froze with the toy car held midair, listening intently.

"I still can't see how you're justifying this." His mother's tone was soft, tentative. "They don't want to be separated."

"And you expect me to think you could do better?" His father's voice spat in reply, "You, the woman so emotionally unstable you can't even cope with the fact you lost custody?? Give me a break!"

The Boy heard no reply from Mom.

"You've somehow convinced the girl to stay with your sorry ass," Went on Dad's brash tone, "What else do you want??"

"She's old enough." Mom's lilt came so meekly it was barely audible through the thin walls. "It was her choice to stay with me, not my influence. But… I just don't see why we can't arrange something. I'll give you whatever you want; I'll pay you for goodness sake! Just please, let me call now and then and see how he's doin–"

A pounding slam of a huge palm on the countertop burst the silent tension.

"For the last time, you will not see him!" The man's roar swept the house. "You will not speak to him, do you understand me?!"

No sound of a reply came from the woman. The Boy buried his face in a pillow, shielding his ears from the loud smack followed by Mom's shrill cry and a hollow quiet.

"Hey…"

He lifted his messy blonde head to the twelve-year-old girl standing in the doorway. The same trepidation reflected in her red, watery eyes. He jumped to his feet and ran to hug her, stopping short when he noticed the shoes on her feet and the suitcase at her side. The keen child connected the dots quickly.

"Big Sis, are you leaving already?"

Wordlessly she stepped in and wrapped him in a tight hug that pulsed with noiseless sobs.

"I'm sorry…" she whispered, "This is all my fault."

The Boy's heart pinched for his poor sibling. A couple months ago Dad went a little too far with one of her punishments and Mom had to call an ambulance. That seemed to be the last straw for the mother and she requested a divorce the next day. Ever since then the girl had been an emotional wreck, convinced the family's suffering was her doing. He tightly squeezed her back.

"It's okay, Big Sis. Mama just doesn't want Daddy to hurt you anymore." He patted her back and mimicked the comforting tone Mom always pulled off so well. "Besides now we get to live at Uncle's beach house in Okinawa! We're going to have fun every day!"

His sister pulled away, holding his hands while her eyes filled. "…Don't say that." She begged him. "We've talked about this. You already know they're not going to let you come."

He furrowed his brow and shook his head adamantly. "I am coming!"

She didn't try to argue with him. Mom and her both had tried so many times to prepare him for this. But the little one just couldn't grasp the idea of any law trying to tell him he couldn't see his mother. Even if Dad was a retired police officer, The Boy wouldn't believe that anyone could forcibly keep him away from his mom and sister.

The woman's hoarse voice now called their names from the kitchen. The Boy took his sister's hand and lead her down the short hall into the crammed living room of the apartment. To their left was the small den messed with papers and junk. The dingy window from the kitchen adjacent spared little sunlight for the cluttered countertops where they found their parents standing in silence. The father – a young man of only thirty-four – slouched in his chair at the round dinner table, a beer can in hand. As the kids walked in, he crumpled his can and tossed it to the sink, standing tall. When he did so the top of his platinum-haired head was less than a foot beneath the low popcorn ceilings, amplifying his altitude. Standing against the inside of the counter was his frail ex-wife, her head hung so that her sleek strawberry hair fell like a curtain to conceal her face. She shook the contents of an orange prescription bottle the children recognized as her "happy pills" into her palm and swallowed them dry.

Truth be told, The Boy had a pretty sharp understanding of his family's odd dynamics – or as sharp of an understanding as a six-year-old possibly could. As far as he knew, his father loved him but hated his sister and Mom fell somewhere in between. . A few days ago, he'd candidly tried to ask his father if he could be allowed to visit Mom and Big Sis after they left. Dad's response was a kind of rage usually reserved for his daughter, a kind The Boy never wanted to feel again. Yet what scared him wasn't the thought of living with his father. It was the undeniable truth that if the girls walked out that door today Dad would make sure he never saw them again

So as the little one marched up to his mother, nuzzling his face in her leg, he knew nothing but the feeling of precious seconds ticking away and the desire to cling to Mom and never let her leave. At his touch the woman startled and wiped her eyes shadowed by her bangs. She reached down and caressed his small beaming face, trying its hardest not to cry while a voice in his head lied to him over and over that this wasn't the last time he'd ever get to stare up into his mother's kind grin.

But her smile was soon drawn away. He stepped around the counter to follow her agitated gaze. Dad had moved and crouched in front of his sister, laying a big hand behind her neck and pulled her close. At first The Boy thought they were going to embrace – which would have been weird because he'd never seen them hug before – but she shrunk away, uncomfortable, as the man whispered in her ear. The Boy never knew what those words were, and Mom probably never found out either. Whatever they were, they brought a few more tears from the twelve-year-old and a strange look on her face. The Boy could never decide if it was fear or regret.

"Sweetheart," Mom addressed her daughter, shoving the bottle of medicine in her purse sitting on the counter, "I think it's time for us to hit the road. Give me your suitcase and go check your room to make sure you didn't leave anything, please."

The girl writhed free of Dad's embrace and darted back to the room, her blonde bob bouncing off her shoulders. She left her suitcase at the man's feet and The Boy, seeing the exasperation on his mother's face, decided a favor might make her smile. Sure enough it did, and she even chuckled as he grabbed the cherry red travel case which was bigger than himself and gradually hauled it to the door where Mom's luggage already sat.

Dad grabbed another beer out of the fridge and disappeared back to the master bedroom. He didn't need to say a word.

Goodbye was inevitable now.

Mom moved to the door and knelt before her youngest child and, lips quivering until they finally broke her proud smile. She took a few shaky breaths and folded her mouth tightly, searching for words. But she crumpled under bittersweet pride and yearning when The Boy hugged her neck and planted a peck on her cheekbone, freshly swelling from the blow of Dad's wedding band he seemed to have forgotten to remove. She gathered The Boy into her lap and sat back on her heels, rocking back and forth.

"Mama," The Boy could hold back his tears no longer, "I'm going with you guys, right…?"

The woman chokingly whispered, "We have to go alone for now, baby."

"But if you leave," The Boy's tremblingly clung to her shoulders with all his might, "Daddy won't let me visit you!"

"Shhh…" his mother soothed him despite her own sniffles.

"B-But do you have to?" he whined.

Mom held his forehead to hers and nodded. His eyes filled to the very brim with tears, stubborn and reluctant to fall. He latched onto her hips as she stood up aversely. "S-Stay a little longer, pleeeease?"

She shook her head, unable to form words. Finally two great tears rolled heavily out of his round eyes. His sister returned now.

"W-When are you coming back??" He persisted, grasping at the hem of Mom's shirt as she picked up her tote bag and shifted the purse on her shoulder. His throat ached and his voice sounded chopped in his mouth. "Are you going to call me to say goodnight??"

His mother slowly slipped on her shoes and started lacing them. Next thing he knew Big Sis was holding him tight, still apologizing.

"But, Big Sis," he cried into her chest and balled her jacket in his fists, "Who's going to play with me??"

"I'm sure you'll make lots of friends at kindergarten tomorrow." His sister weakly tried to assure him.

"Mama is supposed to take me tomorrow!" he wailed like the reminder was agony.

Mom urged the girl to hurry and grab her luggage.

"Wait! I'm little enough I can hide in your bag!" He shrieked and tried to unzip his mother's tote. "Look, I can come too…"

It looked to have taken every fiber of he strength for the mother to reply. "I can't let you do that, baby…"

The child was in whole weeps now. He stopped clinging to her and stood crying. He cried hard. He cried loud. He was willing to cry all day if it would make them linger a little more.

"Just mind your father." Said Mom firmly, avoiding eye contact with the whimpering kid. The Boy wore a look more piercing than shattered glass as she snapped at the girl. "Come. We're going to miss our flight."

His mother flung the door open. Panic seized him. His breathing grew erratic. Mom stepped out into the loft met by a couple neighboring bedsits. The woman wrapped an arm tightly around her first-born and started leading her away.

"Mama, stay!!" The Boy threw himself down, wrapping himself around his mother's boots and clinging for dear life.

As you can imagine, much wailing and utter tantrum-throwing ensued. Several neighbors poked their heads out of their doors, startled by the blood-curdling howls. However, when they saw The Boy having an utter melt down at his mother's ankles, they only shook their heads and slammed their doors, assuming the child was lacking discipline. No one in the building had much of a reason to care for this shut-in family. Of course they had no clue that for this display of affection for his mother and sister and many more that would follow, The Boy was about to be introduced to a whole new world of "discipline."

"Please, baby, Mama has to go-" the woman's voice broke as she tried to shake him. The girl, worrying Dad would hear his cries, stooped and tried to peel him off their mother.

"Don't leave m- me!" He screamed, his round face searched hers for mercy as snot and tears flowed rivers over his quivering lips.

The Boy gasped for air in an abnormally uncontrollable snivel. He spluttered and started hyperventilating. Mom yelped in horror when he wheezed and his grip went limp. She fell to her knees, pulling out a small emergency inhaler she must have forgotten until now was still in her coat pocket. It took lots of kissing and hugging and pats on the back from his sister, but finally the child stopped gasping.

"Remember your breathing." Mom cupped his chin in one hand and fed him another breath from the inhaler. They breathed slowly together. She brushed his bangs out of his eyes and kissed his soft brow, dropping the plastic thing in his chubby hands. The Boy hiccupped and sniffled some more. Mom pulled out a handkerchief and held it to his shiny nose and he blew into it. She gently wiped his face, stroking his raw cheeks with her soft thumbs. She leaned in and whispered in his ear.

"Don't cry, darling. I promise, someday, we'll go together."

Their door flew open. "What the hell is all this raucous?!"

Dad glowered down at the three of them on the floor. Without another word he assessed the situation and snatched his son, yanking him to his side. As far as his ex-wife, one deathly scowl was sufficient. Mom rose and tried hard to hold his gaze. This one time she stood her ground. It was Dad who caved first and headed back into the apartment dragging The Boy with him.

"Mama…" The six-year-old couldn't see through his tears, yet he cried much less freely with his dad squeezing his thin arm.

"You keep your mouth shut!" Dad growled at him, "Wailing like an animal in public!"

The girls linked hands. The boy searched for one more smile from his mother, but the woman turned her back and trudged onward. Big Sis looked over her shoulder with a face full of more pain than words could describe. The Boy locked eyes with her for an instant before his father slammed the door shut between them.

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 2 - “The Oddball”

The next memory that jumps out at me the most is from two years later in his life…

He was hanging around the Tokyo square blooming with life like a plant flourishing under the crisp rays of this spring's first cloudless day. Being the opening Saturday of this seasons' farmer's market, business created a wall of human noises circling the proximity. The Boy was bent over a fountain pool's rim at the foot of a wishing well. It was set neatly out of the way of the adjacent lawn where tents and carts attracted people. Surrounding stores and countryside local businesses had created a mall of this big patch of grass, the humdrum totally ignoring him. The Boy longed to explore the many festivities, to join the other loud children who had designated a small clearing on the turf for a game of catch-ball. All morning, imaginations of being like them, with money to spend on as many sweets as they could bear, kept pulling his brain away from the task at hand. He would soon learn to hate being so disconnected and going unnoticed all the time; but it sure was convenient when his father sent him to do this kind of work.

He glanced over his little shoulders in all directions vigilantly, trying to wipe droplets of water off his face but his shirt was soaked from sitting beside the falling waves for so long. Pulling open the mouth of his orange and gray drawstring bag with his teeth, he brought up a dripping handful of coins and shoved it into the fast-filling sack. He eyed the people nearest. Sure enough none of them seemed to even notice the petty thief in light of grander attractions. Shaking his bag vigorously, the eight-year-old listened to the tinkling of the silvers inside – Dad had trained him to recognize by ear when he'd met the quota.

"Just a little more…"

Scooting his seating on the brim of the pool, he searched for the shine of more change under the foamy roiling water. Walking the perimeter with pruned fingers scraping the bottom, he decided reluctantly that he'd already fished the fountain down to the last yen.

Soaked head-to-toe from the spray, he stepped back and crinkled his nose at the irritating squish of his sopping tennis shoes. Good thing they had so many holes, he thought, at least they'd drain fast. He lifted his shirt to dry his face on the one part of the hem that wasn't moist. As he did, a single coin flew over his head, diving into the water with a light plop. The Boy hurriedly dropped his shirt to cover his bruised ribs and spun round.

There stood Watanabé-sensei, holding the hand of his pregnant wife. "Oh! My bad, I didn't mean to startle you."

"Watanabé-sensei!" The Boy bowed to his reading teacher, his favorite teacher.

The young man flicked his dark shoulder-length hair out of his face and exchanged an amused glance at his wife. "So you, uh… You've been playing in the fountain, I see."

"Oh." The Boy stammered, his wet clothes irritating his chapped skin, "Um… Yeah."

"Don't you think it's a bit early in the season for water games?" The teacher raised a kindly brow, "What with your asthma you could catch a cold, you know."

The child nodded compliantly with a contrite expression.

"Anyway," Watanabé-sensei went on warmly. "Did you toss a coin for the needy children while you were here?"

The Boy's eyes panned this way and that, confused and embarrassed. Dad only ever told him to take money out of the wells; he never said anything about giving.

"Don't you know?" the man urged cheerily.

He stepped over and crouched next to a small plaque mounted on the approaching side of the wishing well. He gestured for The Boy to com near and so he did. Watanabé-sensei asked him if he could read the sign. The child gave it one glance before hanging his head and apologizing for letting his teacher down. But the patient instructor encouraged him not give up without trying. Together they slowly read the notice aloud, Watanabé-sensei helping him with the more difficult characters. When they finished he praised The Boy heartily. At this the child was aware of a sincere if not undersized grin breaking his wary nerves.

"Now all together that says," the man explained, "That every yen dropped into this pool is donated to charities for needy children."

They watched his wife also flip a coin into the fountain.

The-eight-year-old wrung the sack in his hand. Watanabé-sensei was the only one of his teachers that was really nice to him, and he didn't want him to think he was a selfish boy.

"I'm not allowed to use this money." The Boy explained pithily .

Seeing the strange expressions on the adults' faces, he quickly thought up a lie. "I- I mean, this is my Dad's money! He gave it to me to… to only buy certain things. I was just playing in the well for fun."

His teacher's face made a disturbed frown. "You aren't out here by yourself, are you??"

The Boy quickly shook his head and lied again, picking a random area of the dense mob to shoot a directed finger. "My Dad is over there."

The teacher and his wife briefly gazed and scanned the compact of people. "Well, alright then." Hesitant, the former nodded.

The Boy had never realized these wells were dedicated to a charity cause and not just here for him and Dad to scrape up cash. He'd been told not to talk to people about that; but still, he was curious.

"How needy do you have to be get money from the fountain?" he inquired modestly. "Can they make one for me and my dad?"

The teacher fixed his eyes on him with perturbed surprise. The Boy was used to getting looks like this from adults whenever he talked about his father. He clamped his hands tightly now. "Uh oh. I think I said something wrong again."

At length, Watanabé-sensei laughed off his shock and gave The Boy a pat on the shoulder. "Don't you worry about that. The people who build the wells know who is in most need of the money. And… they make sure those people get it." He stated, abnormally unsure of himself. His wife said something about needing to be somewhere, and The Boy took his cue to trot away. Before he got far Watanabé-sensei called him to wait.

Tentative but moved with pity, he told The Boy to hold out his hands. The child obeyed while his teacher dug his wallet out of his back pocket. When a handful of silvers was dropped in his palms, The Boy was sure his eyes must have been swindling him.

"Don't tell your classmates," Said the man, snickering at the child's awe, "But consider this a little reward for being top of your class."

The Boy gaped, looking from the coins to the man to the coins and back.

"No need for thanks." said Watanabé-sensei. "Do me a favor and find a good use for that spare change. I hear the bakery stand has excellent fresh pies."

The Boy ogled at the money like he'd never been handed any sort of allowance before – probably because he hadn't. The child quickly counted the coins. Fifteen yen! That should be just enough to meet Dad's quota. He pulled open his wet bag and emptied his hands into it.

Beaming radiantly he exclaimed, "Thank you so much, Sensei! My Dad will let me eat breakfast now so I'll go! Thank you!!"

With that he loped off, not waiting to see what was probably sheer bafflement on the teacher's face. The child charged into the thickest part of the horde and made a b-line for home, jostling through the masses and crawling under knees. The thought of breakfast was almost too good to bear. The Boy fantasized Dad cooking spam, bacon and warm honey-muffins with a steamy omelet. His father was an outstanding cook, and it's been forever since the kid tasted bacon or spam. The last time was when he made the mistake of thinking he could use his collection earnings to buy himself breakfast without asking Dad's permission to use the money. But that was a naughty and ungrateful thing to do, he soon discovered, and his punishment was having morning meals restricted to a cup of dry cereal for two weeks. The Boy could see it now though. His mouth watered and he could already smell a table's worth of donuts, scones, and fresh pies. Coming to a roomier part of the marketplace he stopped a minute to reevaluate the direction the crowd it had slung him in. Circling in place, he threw on his brakes mid-turn.

His imagination wasn't as crazed as he thought. The air really did carry the aroma of hot pastries, and the source was a small concession cart between two park benches directly before him, obscured only by the ever moving cell of humans. The scent on the breeze hooked his grumbling belly and next thing he knew his feet were inching him closer and closer to the umbrella-shaded stand. The mini bakery was cloud nine to his starvation-driven eyes.

The petite kid stood on his toes to see over the counter and gawked at the many plates of cakes and cookies laid out. He was stirred from his reverie by the sound of his name. An old lady with silver hair tied into two buns stood behind the lace-clothed table. She wasn't much taller than him and had to lean forward to see him on the other side. Her face was wrinklier than old leather but youthful irises, sweet and peachy warm, glimmered behind saggy eyelids. The baker observed his wet clothes and holey shoes, but he didn't blush; he was too focused on his stomach growling ferociously. Hearing the hungry plea, she smiled so that her slack cheeks were drawn into deep creases.

"Do you like lemon meringue?" she pulled out a brown bag and picked up a powdered sugar pie pocket.

He gaped at the pastry while drool wetted the corners of his drooping lips. You'd think the old lady had offered him a brick of gold.

"Go on, dear. I could hear your stomach rumbling a mile away. It's on the house." She shot him a wink, though it was hardly noticeable through her wrinkles.

Dumbfounded, too shocked to wonder how the lady had known his name, he took the pastry slowly. First he was willingly handed the money his father was going to make him work for… now he got to eat free sweets for breakfast?

There was no way this day could possible get better.

The Boy bowed to the lady and took a bite of the pastry. He might have said thank you if he hadn't been a starving eight-year that hadn't tasted sugar in weeks. He wolfed the rest down and scampered off, grinning as the sweetness inebriated his frail bones.

No longer famished, he saw no need to speed through the crowd. He took his time and listened to the conversations loudly floating around – the silent child had developed quite the habit of eavesdropping. Once again, the sound of his name called his ears, a single decipherable word in the buzz of voices. This time it was in a nearby conversation. Straining his ears, he followed the sound of his teacher's voice and found him and his wife a few yards away, standing with their backs to him in a tent full of hand-crafted jewelry. The latter was eyeing a pair of earrings as her husband small talked about their strange encounter with The Boy. The snooping kid stood still behind a floor sign for the neighboring vender, listening and watching charily, still licking some sugar-glaze off his fingers.

"I told you, he's not like any of his classmates." Watanabé-sensei clamped his hands on his hips thoughtfully, "Sometimes I wonder about the poor kid."

"Why's that?" the woman held some crystals up to her ears and looked into a mirror hanging from the side of the tent.

"Well…" The man considered some necklaces handing from mannequin heads. "Did you see how he reacted when I gave him a couple of coins? Since when do children think of using spare change for anything other than buying a gumball? He put it straight towards his father's wallet… saying something about being allowed to have breakfast now??"

"Maybe he was just raised to think generously."

"I don't know, Hun. If a kid his age were to do a generous deed, they'd find more fun in throwing money in a fountain than being concerned with their parent's finances. And did you notice his tone when he asked about getting charity donations? What kind of eight-year-old worries about things like that?? He's like that in class too, you know. Peculiarly more mature than the others. Not to sound nosy, but… I can't help feeling the boy must have an… interesting home life."

His wife scoffed and tossed the earrings down to pick up another pair. "Now you're just assuming things."

"I'm only speculating," continued the man with a shake of his head, "His father has a reputation for being a recluse. I've never once seen him at any of the parent-teacher meetings; or at any school events for that matter. Parents like that have a certain effect on little kids."

"Ayato," the woman chided him lightly and stood straight, "You have a bad habit of making assumptions about people without any evidence."

"Perhaps." Watanabé-sensei consented, thoughtfully chewing the inside of his cheek. "But I'm not speaking without experience. I've taught elementary kids for three years and… He's a real oddball. Besides, it is my job to worry about my students."

"I know you were a reserved kid too because how hard your mom was on you," His wife said slowly, and he chuckled cynically.

"Hard. Yes, that's one way to put it."

"But that was you and your family." She insisted pointedly, "You said his parents had a bit of an ugly divorce, right?"

"Yes, it was the talk of the town for a long while."

"Exactly. Things like that are sometimes all it takes to make a kid grow up a little faster than the others. You speculate too far into your students' lives, honey, and one day it'll get you in trouble."

Watanabé-sensei sighed. "I know… You're probably right."

And with that they linked arms and carried on through the market. The Boy turned away from the masses straight to the street leading him home, wondering what exactly an "oddball" was.

By the time he reached the short cement wall surrounding his neighborhood block, The Boy's sopping clothes were dry but his tattered tennis shoes still squeaked with each step and rubbed moist blisters into his heels. He slowly trudged down the side walk into the spacious suburban sect on the outskirts of town. This vine-ridden neighborhood encased row after row of equally tawdry houses and two-story apartment buildings. There was a slight downward slope in the street off of the main road where neared his own apartment in the far lower corner of the block. The neighborhood might have been overgrown, but The Boy liked to think at least the trees and wildflowers were prospering where they peaked through the potholes and split concrete. The city maintenance crews seemed to have forgotten this neighborhood even existed. His young imagination would often conjure a day when the surrounding foliage would breach the fence-line and devour the adjoining homes.

He tarried by a big dumpster at the corner of a street, trying to entice a gray cat sitting atop the garbage bags with the sticky napkin from his pie. As always, the dexterous feline could hardly be less interested – it was The Boy's aspiration to one day earn the love of the stray with whatever daily offerings he could manage. But the hissing and thrashing claws were pretty good indicators that today wasn't going to be that day.

On the bright side, The Boy meditated how kind and that old woman at the bakery stand was, resuming his walk toward his apartment building. Having a grandmother like that was always his hopeless wish. You see, his mother was an orphan and his grandfather on his dad's side died from some sort of organ failure. Apparently his grandmother went shortly after from a broken heart. If he had ever gotten the chance to meet his grandparents before they died, he must have been too young, for he had no memory of them and Dad didn't like talking about his family. His idea of keeping his son safe was making sure his world consisted of them two and them alone.

One day, when Mom kept her promise to come get him, The Boy planned on meeting the rest of his remaining family. But Dad was an only child so as far as he knew that included no more than his lawyer uncle that Mom and Big Sis now lived with.

He finally came to his apartment complex and went straight to do his daily morning chore: collecting the mail. He treaded straight for the red communal postbox behind the railings of the sidewalk, under a streetlamp opposite the single traffic light – the same mailbox where Hiyori and I found his ghost drifting the night I made him my shinki. After punching in the pass code for his father's slot, he grabbed the handful of envelopes, hopping over the sidewalk railing again and flipping through the papers. Normally he never tried to read his father's mail but Watanabé-sensei's encouragement earlier made him want to try harder to read whatever he got his hands on. As he neared the entrance to the apartment building he handled now the last envelope in the bunch. It was baby blue, addressed to his father in a flawless scrawling handwriting that triggered something familiar in the depths of his young memory. If he was any older and smarter, he might have mulled over Dad's consequences for opening any mail without permission; but, a burst of nostalgia for his mother as he read her name on the return address possessed him. He dropped the rest of the envelopes, ripping open the blue letter. Inside was a single sheet of notebook paper with that same neat hand addressed very curtly to Dad from Mom. It took a very long time to comprehend the whole letter, but the bright child eventually made it out:

Hello. Have you boys been doing well? It's been almost a year since the last time we talked and I know you've been ignoring my calls for a reason. I'm sorry, but I can't take it any longer. I know the courts didn't grant us shared custody, and I will abide by that for now. But I think you and I both know there's no legal reason why I shouldn't be able to talk to him. As his father I think you owe him the choice to talk to me since he wanted to come with us initially. If he doesn't want to, I promise I'll leave you alone. This is the only time I'll make this request. You have my number; please consider letting him call me now and then or letting him write me. I wish you both the best.

…

Needless to say, the innocent was nothing but jitters and half-suppressed smiles as Dad let him into the apartment and he handed over the handful of mail along with his full money bag. The odor of beer coating the stuffy apartment curdled his stomach a little less. The clutter of papers and trash stacked and strewn in every corner didn't cramp the space so oppressively. With Mom's blue envelope shoved in the waist of his jeans and hidden under his shirt, the whole world was brighter. He couldn't appreciate enough his unbelievable luck in having gotten a hold of the letter before Dad did.

The man nodded his approval at a glance inside the heavy, bulging money-bag. "Good job, peewee."

The Boy grinned. When Dad called him peewee he knew the man was in a good mood. It was usually only when he used the nickname "runt" that he knew he needed to tread lightly.

While Dad sifted through the mail on the counter his son bobbed on his toes. There was a brief silence as he tensely watched his father throw a few envelopes into the trash.

"Hey, Dad?" The words spilled uncontrollably. He clenched his small fists to try to contain himself. "I have a question."

"Yeah? And what might that be?" his father mumbled inattentively.

"Um… could I – I mean," The Boy picked at some gunk stuck under the counter-top, avoiding eye contact. "I was just wondering if you thought I could maybe talk to Mom…?"

Dad hesitated. When the child's candid question sank in, he furrowed his brow and his voice lowered an octave.

"You want to talk to your mom?" he asked, and the child knew it was a loaded question.

"Not really…" The Boy corrected. "I was… I was just wondering if you'd be okay with it… if I did."

Dad planted his palms on the counter and leaned forward with a thoughtful pause. "What makes you think she would want to talk to you?" he said, and the words stung the kid's chest like a dagger. "She did leave us, you know."

The Boy's smile was all gone. "But… if she did want to talk to me?"

Dad moved around the counter and crouched noiselessly.

"C'mere." He beckoned his son. The Boy obeyed and his father took his arms tightly in his huge paws.

"Listen, peewee," his Dad's jaw and face was set hard but his voice was sober and sad. "She does not want you. If she ever says she does, she's lying, alright??"

The Boy nodded.

"We've been through this." Dad lectured. "She and the little wench left us because they didn't want us. She has no right to ever say she wants to talk to you. Ever. Do you understand me?"

The Boy nodded.

Dad squeezed his arms so hard his fingers started going numb. "Do you understand me??"

"Yes, sir."

The letter hidden in his waistline burned his skin. Maybe Dad was right. But his heart ached at the very sight of his mother's words. How would he know if he never tried?

He'd keep the letter; just in case. Besides, what his father didn't know couldn't hurt him, right?

But Dad's eyes were already hurting. "…I can't believe you'd even ask me that. After everything I've done to protect you from those bitches."

The Boy's chest pinched as his father stood slowly wearing a deeply pained expression.

"I'm sorry, Dad." He insisted. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, I promise. I was just wondering."

"I'm the one giving my all to provide for you." His father said, returning to the pile of mail, aggravated. "But nah, you're not satisfied with that. Why would you be? You'd rather live with your mental case of a mother… That's fine. Why should I care?"

"Dad!" The Boy whined. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

The parent only chewed the inside of his cheek.

Nerves pounding in apprehension of the mood he just instilled in his parent, the little boy tried hard to think of something to cheer him up.

"Want to hear some good news?" he eagerly asked Dad, "I had a really good morning. I got a free lemon meringue pie from one of the ladies at the farmer's market."

Dad didn't care.

"And also I met Watanabé-sensei and he helped me get enough money to meet our quota! Wasn't that nice of him?"

Dad gawked at The Boy. "He…what???"

The air grew tense. "Uh oh. I said something wrong again."

"You…stupid-!" Dad shouted and ripped his son's collection sack open again, blinking again at the impressive amount of money. "How did he help you get money?!"

The Boy's voice caught in his throat sheepishly. "He just gave me some spare change."

"Just some spare change?" Dad sardonically echoed. "And just what the hell did you tell him to make him do that??"

The child flinched, tongue frozen.

"Speak, runt!"

He caved to the man's jarring bark. He explained exactly how his teacher had almost caught him stealing and, being far too scared to know where to stop, dug his grave deeper by rambling on to tell in detail the conversation he overheard between the couple. All the while Dad stared at the bag of money that he was proud of a moment ago like he was now revolted.

"You told him I wouldn't let you eat??" Dad was baffled. "What have I told you about lying!?"

Tears starting stinging the kid's eyes. "But… this morning you said –"

"I didn't say a damn thing like that!" Dad roared. "What's wrong with you, huh? You think it's funny to tell your teachers lies about me??"

"No!" The Boy whimpered. He could have sworn Dad threatened not to feed him this morning if he didn't meet the quota.

His father's voice went very low, almost inaudible. "Stupid, stupid child. I wish you'd stop making me have to teach you this lesson. Acting like a pauper to get people to pity you is unacceptable. I did not send you out there to beg like a helpless stray, I sent you to go get what may as well be ours! At school tomorrow you're going to act like a normal child, especially in front of Watanabé! No more of this pity-pot crap trying to get your teachers involved where they don't belong!" He tossed the bag aside and rounded the counter deliberately. "Couch. Bend over."

The Boy's stomach fell through his toes. "But-!"

"Are you deaf and stupid? I said bend!" Dad approached and the child paced back until his backside bumped the arm of the sofa. "We don't need anyone snooping around our business, they'll only hurt us! One of these days it'll get through your thick skull."

"I wasn't –!" The Boy broke like a toothpick under the weight of Dad's snarl. "I didn't mean to!"

"Bend. Over. Now."

The Boy rushed and turned over – taking the first offer of a beating was always better than the penalty of trying to run. A musty smelling pillow protected his ears from more rising shouts reverberating in the room. He waited for the first blow while a couple frightened tears squeezed from his clamped eyes. Dad pulled his belt out of his jeans, looping it and fastening the buckle at the end like a metal head on a flogging whip…

_To be continued..._


	4. Chapter 3 - “Dusk”

Almost a year later…

A blanket wrapped his shivering shoulders where he leaned over the balcony watching a honey-colored glow from the West beam low through the neighboring houses. Actually I should say he leaned against the balcony; this year's growth spurt had been so short lived I don't know if you could call it a spurt at all. He still couldn't prop his chin on the top of the rail without standing on his toes. But still he watched while the yellow wildflowers sprouting in the sea of concrete closed their vibrant petals, a dense fog hovering over the back-alleys and swallowing his beloved red post box.

Dad was in a sour mood today and The Boy's skin still stung where the wedding ring had left a welt on his cheek. But the child's bad day had begun way before he came home to an angry father. It was kicked off by his only friend at school, a kid named Shoma Ushio, ignoring his request to save him a seat with the other boys at lunch. To top it off, his gut tickled queasily with dread watching the dusk creep nearer – nothing but a sign that the worst part of the night was yet to come: the night itself.

You might think Yukiné's fear of the dark is childish. But trust me, by the age of nine he'd been given a pretty damn good reason for the phobia.

The Boy's thin belly shuddered a long and loud rumble. He knew his father liked him to stay small and skinny because it made him feel puny and submissive, like a kid should be to his elders. But he'd love it if Dad just trusted him to obey and allowed him to eat dinner before homework and chores every now and then…

He missed the days when his father adored everything he did. But when he remembered that it was only at the expense of Big Sis he told himself it was still okay, because he was the one Dad loved, and the way he was treated wasn't half as bad as what she went through. He told himself these things often and tried to be happy for his sister getting to live with Mom. Yet some days he couldn't help but get this mean little voice in his head that wanted to go back to being the safe one while his sister got the short end of the stick…

As the warmth behind the tree-line panned from vermillion to ochre and the air got nippier, The Boy pulled the blanket closer around him and stepped back inside, locking the doors again and hiding the key under the floor mat so Dad wouldn't know he'd snuck it. Turning round, his shadow on the tatami was lean and tall, almost reaching the opposite wall. With the comforter around his shoulders the silhouette laid across his mess of futon and pillows looked broader, like a king or god in fine robes. The Boy stuck out his arms and tried some different poses, giggling briefly at what a phony image the shadow granted him.

His shadow was his only friend many evenings like this trapped in his room. They played together often. But even it abandoned him at nightfall.

Nowadays his room was still the same lonely prison it always was but he'd been granted a few new additions – just enough to keep him sane. Although his father confiscated any family pictures that included Mom and Big Sis, he allowed his son to post a couple drawings and posters. Other than that the kid found one of his favorite past times was playing at how precariously he could balance his growing stack of comics. But the one thing in his room that excited him most was currently his pride and joy: a cheap skate board Dad had found and taught him to ride. He thought it would be cheaper than making his son use public transportation all the time, and The Boy loved the feeling of freedom it gave him. Of course, the board was a full sized one so the little guy grated his knees a few hundred times before he got the hang of it; but he didn't mind. The red and yellow splatter paintwork on its underside was gorgeous, the coolest looking thing he'd ever owned. He always kept the colors facing outward where it leaned against his black dresser.

But I digress. The Boy was nauseous from hunger. It had been several hours since he got home from school and was banished here. It should be safe to ask now, right? Muffled voices and noises that sounded like Dad's favorite sit-com droned through the thin walls, so he decided to shoot his shot. With his heart in his throat he crept down the hall, following the sounds of the TV until he reached the opening to the cluttered den. Hugging the corner of the wall, he peeked his head around to see the TV screen. Dad had his feet propped on the coffee table littered with beer cans and made no sign of noticing his son. But The Boy knew he saw him.

The kid waited for the commercial break before clearing his throat. "Um, Dad?"

The man took his time replying, snapping the remote at the monitor. "What do you want?"

"I was just wondering," said the child with a cough as his nervous breath caught in his throat, "If… I could have dinner now, please?"

"Is your room clean?" Dad muttered, staring at the screen.

"Yes, sir."

"Your homework done?"

"…Yes." The child looked at the coffee table, the TV, the kitchen, anywhere except at his father.

Dad's eyes strayed from the TV, "Are you lying to me?"

The Boy swallowed the hardness in his throat. "…Yes."

The man let out a sigh, chewing the inside of his cheek. "You know, son… maybe if you would quit being so lazy about your education – which I am paying dearly to provide – we wouldn't be so poor, you know?"

Dad raised his brows pitifully and matter-of-factly. The Boy dropped his gaze, guilt seeping into his gut.

"I mean, if you're just going to brush off your school work like this then I don't need to keep throwing away my money on it, right?" Dad shrugged cynically with a half-grin as if the thought amused him. "Might actually be better for the both of us. Maybe then I could actually afford to buy myself a car. And you wouldn't have any more responsibilities to worry about. You could just grow up and be a god damn retard." Dad laughed. "Sounds good to me, how about you? You want to be taken out of school?"

The Boy shook his head.

"Then why the hell are you asking to eat? You know better."

The child pouted his lip, fidgeting his feet.

"Hello??" Dad sang sardonically. "Haven't you learned to speak or did you fall asleep for those lessons too?"

The Boy furrowed his brow at the carpet. "I'm still at the top of my class, Dad… and I will finish it, I've already been working for a couple hours. But I… couldn't figure out this one math problem."

"Oh, I see." Dad mocked empathy. "And obviously ignoring the problem makes it solve itself, is that what they teach you in class?"

"…No."

"Well, then I think you should go deal with it sooner than later, don't you?"

"Can't I just have a little snack real quick?" Desperation stoked The Boy's bravery, "I didn't finish breakfast this morning and I gave some of my lunch to my friend at school. I could focus better if I wasn't hungry."

Dad shot forward in his seat and leaned a pointed glower at his son. "Did I stutter?"

The latter gripped his roiling abdomen. "No, sir."

The parent sat back again with a shake of his head, tossing his empty beer can in the general direction of the bin in the kitchen. It clunked off the counter and hit the floor about three feet from the goal. Dad wasn't too drunk yet, The Boy thought hopefully – he had learned to evaluate his father's level of intoxication by how far his normally excellent aim was thrown off.

As Dad let out a huge yawn, telling The Boy to grab him another beer. The Boy marched to the kitchen and, picking up the empty can, put it in the trash and moved to the fridge to fetch his father yet another. His nausea worsened all the more as he handed his parent the cold can, bracing himself again.

"Dad?" he said quickly, hoping to get a quick answer before the show came back on.

"What??" the man sighed.

"N-Nishioka-sensei wanted me to ask you something." The child swallowed a cough and tried not to reach for his inhaler. "My class is getting together on the 13th for a parent fellowship and play-date for us kids. She wanted us to come."

"When?" Dad's voice rose an octave.

"The 13th."

"No," Came the hurried rejoinder. "I told you, that's when I'm starting work at the factory."

"But," The Boy pleaded, "It's a dinner picnic. It doesn't start until 5:30 so it'll be way after you get off. We could even show up a little late –"

Dad gave a menacing look that sent The Boy into tail-tucked retreat without further protest.

After another hour or so in his room, the pile of textbooks on his nightstand-desk was finally shrunk down to the last book. Violently rubbing his aching eyes, barely held open by sheer force of will, he shoved his supplies into his backpack for tomorrow. Sleepiness had long-since overruled the cramps in his empty stomach. Sitting straight on a sitting pillow atop his mess of blankets, he stretched and twisted. The numbers of the alarm clock on the desk read "too-late-to-eat pm." The sound of late-night news broadcasts muffled through the walls. Dad must have crashed on the couch because he never watched the news this late. Although he wouldn't be allowed to eat without showing Dad his completed assignments, The Boy would rather go hungry any day than wake his father from a dead sleep.

The Boy blinked firmly to keep his eyelids from drooping. There was one more thing he absolutely had to do before he could relieve himself from the feat of staying awake. After prepping his futon for bed and changing into one of Dad's old T-shirts, the hem of which reached his mid shin, he furtively approached the door, listening carefully until he heard Dad's snores.

Shutting off the overhead light so the room was lit only by his desk lamp, he took Mom's letter from this morning out of his coat pocket where he'd hidden it from his father. Rolling onto his belly under the covers, he peeled open the blue envelope and read her letter, fingering some blank notebook paper and chewing the end of a pencil.

The trepidation that came with merely holding one of these forbidden letters was enough to rouse him better than three cups of espresso. But soon his mother's voice came alive in the memory of his ears, as soothing as ever.

He had done an excellent job never letting his father suspect Mom had sent any letter at all. Dad was a creature of habit and never went himself to collect the mail but always left it up to The Boy, making the whole thing very easy. As you probably already guessed, The Boy had eventually decided to send a letter back telling Mom that Dad had given him the green light, and so they had been writing each other ever since. Because neither of his parents knew that Mom didn't have Dad's consent, in the beginning there were of course some hurtles, such as the mother wanting to know if The Boy would call her on the phone to chat, but nothing that the child couldn't lie his way out of with responses like "Dad won't let me because he thinks talking on the phone is bad for me learning how to communicate."

But his mother's letters weren't always satisfactory. No matter how many times he asked, Mom never said much about when or how they would get to see each other again. She'd just tell him not to worry and that someday they'd go together.

The Boy read the loving address and endnote over and over, closing his eyes and imagining her face smiling as she spoke. With heart soaring, The Boy picked up his own pen and paper.

"Dear Mom,

I miss you guys so bad! Yes, I'm good in school and I'm still at the top of my class. My lowest grade is a 76 in PE. But that's 'cause the other kids think I'm too little to play the games."

He did his best to keep answering Mom's simple questions, stomach still whining for food and lungs still stinging a little from coughing as he reached her question about his health. It took a moment but eventually he composed a nice sounding white lie about getting plenty to eat and that his asthma wasn't getting worse. For a while longer The Boy jotted things he thought his mother would be happy to hear. With time, as his ramblings onto the paper came more easily he found himself venting.

Mom probably would've taken him to the play date without any grief at all. She never gave him any grief about wanting to be normal kid. He recalled a line from her last letter,

'There's nothing you can't tell me, darling.'

With this consolation, he vented one last woe; one that had been weighing on his conscience all day. He started by telling her what happened this morning at school with Shoma Ushio. The end of his letter sounded a little like this:

"Also, Mom, how do you know if it's wrong to do something? Today at lunch I asked Ushio-kun to save me a seat at the cafeteria but he went to hang out with his other friends and forgot. I really want them to like me, so when they asked me to steal the last bag of cookies from one of the lower class girls, I did. Or I was going to, but she was enjoying them so I felt bad. I let them have my bag of cookies instead. Ushio-kun laughed at me and I didn't know why I couldn't do it. Ushio-kun and his friends deserved the cookies just as much as the girl did, right? I guess I thought you would be mad at me if I started being mean to the younger kids. But is stealing really bad? My teachers say thieves end up lonely because no one trusts them, but what if I stole something that Dad and me really needed? Then it would be okay, right? What do you think I should have done? I'm really confused."

He ached to do anything and everything to make her proud. Maybe if she was proud enough she'd want to come see him faster. Whether stealing was wrong or not, he didn't yet have the maturity to tell or care. All he knew was a prick in his chest at the thought of Mom being sad that he and Dad stole people's money almost daily. Money seemed to be a big deal to adults though, so for now cookies seemed a safe enough topic to ask about.

The Boy was lucky enough to pilfer some stamps from Dad once but never any envelopes. Instead he learned how to fold and tape paper into envelopes and like so began packaging this reply letter to Mom. Tomorrow he would wake up extra early for school and drop off the letter in the mailbox. He was about to address the front of the parcel when something in the air went stiff and silent. The monotonous hum of the TV in the den had been shut off. Heavy footsteps drew closer approaching the hall to the two bedrooms. Panic polluted the child's circulation.

He crumpled excess notepad paper and thrust everything, envelopes, pencil, and stamps, under his pillow. The creaking of the hallway floorboards paused. It sounded to be at the doorway to the master bedroom. The child prayed they would stay there. Instead it sounded on again, coming closer.

He dropped flat and quickly rolled himself up in the blanket, hiding his face. His bedroom door sang a meticulous creak and he clamped his eyes shut, pretending hard to be asleep. There was a stillness that The Boy assumed was Dad staring, trying to see if he was really sleeping. His body felt the tatami mats give underneath the man tipsily crossing the room and reaching over his son to turn off the lamp on the nightstand, grumbling something about wasting electricty. There was a click and the inside of The Boy's eyelids went even darker. Dad then stumbled his way out of the room, almost tripping on the doorstep. An eternity stretched on until the sound of the master bedroom door closing allayed his seized breath.

The Boy didn't waste a second with eyes open to the darkness. He lurched for the lamp. With a pulse pounding in his throat his fingers flew in search of the knob, flicking it instantly upon finding it. The pale light reached just far enough to blanket the darkest corners of the space and The Boy's head fell back on the pillow again. A wave of relief like a breeze cleared his congested nerves in a weighty exhale.

He hated the dark.

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 4 - “Sayonara, Second Chance”

The Boy was now ten-years-old. One autumn morning he watched the streets of the town square pass by on his way to school. It would have been a totally normal morning if he wasn't holding his father's shoulders from the back of the man's bike.

The two had been through hell and back yesterday in a fight the child thought would never end. What started it? Maybe it was because he said something about missing Mom; that usually got him in deep trouble these days. But his head ached like it had been pulverized by a meat tenderizer – probably because it had – so he didn't care to remember.

They rode through the cityscape in occasional bouts of silence. Knowing his lips were split and face was bruised, The Boy had every single guard up and willed no one to stare at him and his father as they passed. Every now and then Dad would point out a street or building at random and in a few words tell his son an adventure he had there in his police officer days. It was so rare that Dad left the house, and even rarer that he wanted to spend time with The Boy, so the child tried hard to enjoy his father's stories as much as was safely possible.

But he hardly spoke a word the whole ride, too afraid of ruining the unordinary tranquility. Normally after such a big fight Dad would either give a silent treatment or guilt trip for the next few days. Not this morning, though. This morning he woke The Boy with a full breakfast, something he hadn't been granted in a very long time. As if that wasn't enough the man offered him a ride to school. All morning Dad doted on his son, like he used to when Big Sis was around.

"I didn't know that place was still open." Dad said as they passed an ice cream parlor that stoked a very distant memory of The Boy's. He and his father had had a father-son date there when he was five.

"Why don't we check it out today after school?" Dad suggested.

The birds singing all around rang loud in The Boy's aching head rested again his father's back, so it took a minute for that question to compute. When it did he didn't believe what he'd heard.

"You mean," he muttered, "You're going to come pick me up after school too?"

"Yeah. I've got errands to run around town anyway." Replied Dad, "…Unless you don't want me to?"

It was a sincere question, but the tone gave a teeny hint that The Boy should be careful with his answer. He hesitated, now noticing his father's clothes smelt nice, like laundry detergent instead alcohol.

"No, I do." He responded plainly, trying hard to focus on the Dad of this morning, not the brute he cowered to last night.

The pair rolled up to the front of the elementary school building and Dad slowed to a stop, helping his son down because The Boy was too short for his legs to touch the ground from his father's tall seat.

"Alright," said the man, handing The Boy his backpack, "You going to be good today, peewee?"

The child nodded, taking a big gasp from his inhaler.

Dad crouched and combed the ten-year-old's shaggy hair down with his fingers. "Damn," he muttered, "Didn't I teach you how to use a brush?"

The Boy's head ached too much to protest as his father spit-licked his hair down flatter. Besides, it was nice being touched without the pain.

"Hey..." Dad said lowly, "About last night, I just want you to know that it hurt me as much as it did you. I just… I want us to get along."

At the softness of Dad's voice The Boy chanced a look into the man's eyes. What he saw was the dark brown irises, normally black and hard, illuminated with a golden honey color reflecting the sunrise. They were still hard. There was still something guarded behind them. But he'd never looked at them in the sunlight before, outside of that reeking dull apartment. He never realized how potentially warm his father's eyes could be if he'd only spend time with him in the sun more often.

"Do you think we can start trying a little harder to make that happen?" the father asked.

After hours of walking on eggshells, fearing Dad might turn back into last night's fiend, The Boy finally breathed freely. His father didn't know how to vocalize an apology, he knew that. But maybe that's what Dad was really going for here. The thought seemed a little too good to be true, but The Boy grabbed hold of it anyway.

"Yes, sir." He promised.

Dad gave a curt smile without his eyes. "Good. I'm trusting you to be smart enough to make sure it doesn't happen again. I know you can do it."

He touched the side of his child's face that he'd hit so many times yesterday there stayed a bright purple and green bruise over the soft cheekbone. "And if anyone asks about this…?"

"I fell off my skateboard." The Boy recited.

"Smart boy." Dad praised him. "Now get going. And stand up straight unless you _want_ to look like a midget."

That stung, but the child soothed himself, _"It's okay. He's just looking out for me._"

As for the falling off the skateboard, he didn't mind being accused of being a poor skater if it meant Dad calling him smart for a change.

Climbing the steps, he made up his mind that today things changed. _"Dad hates Mom and Big Sis, but he loves me."_ He told himself once more,_ "I just need to do better, then we can go back to normal. He believes I can do it, so I will. No more beatings."_

Enjoying a smile knowing this was a rare opportunity to get a second chance with Dad, he looked back to wave his father goodbye; but the man was already riding down the block heading home.

In the entrance hall a bell chimed deafeningly on the wall right above his ears, rudely awakening him from his contemplations with the warning he was already late for class. Scurrying around the nearest corner and into another empty hall he ran straight into a circle of twelve-year-old boys. By his luck of course it would be none other than the notorious menaces of all lower classes – the Hagiwara triplets.

The recognition of their identical faces shoved instant regret into his gut and he dodged straight around the three, wide eyed and holding his breath. He had no time to hope they hadn't seen his face before one of them sidestepped and plucked his ankles out from under him.

"Hey, where ya going, bitty-brains?"

The upperclassman sang at the fragile kid anchored to the ground by his heavy pack, looking like a turtle awkwardly turned face up on its shell. Clambering to his feet, The Boy's face teamed with red heat. The Hagiwaras circled him.

"Ooh, dude!" A different one of the silver-haired tyrants jabbed his brother in the side. "Look at that shiner, Fumitaka! Ha, bet I can guess where he got it."

The one who tripped him, Fumitaka-senpai, nodded. "I bet you could, Fumiya. Daddy's been making sure little bitty-brains stays at the top of his class."

"Oh no!" Fumiya-senpai gasped sardonically in a mocking shrill voice. "Please, Daddy, no! I promise I'll get all straight A's next time!"

"Please, not the belt! Anything but the belt!" Fumitaka-senpai finished, hands gripped daintily at his chest.

Any anger piling up tumbled and fell through The Boy's toes. Did he really look that pathetic to everyone else?

"Alright, alright." Said the third one, Fuminori-senpai, who had yet to speak but only smirked at his brothers' taunts. "Hand over that change and we'll get outta your hair."

"I don't have any this morning." The Boy glared.

One of them lurched at him but the light and dexterous child dodged with ease, stepping on the toes of the one behind him.

"C'mon. Do you really wanna go three to one, midget?" said Fuminori-senpai who seemed to be the ringleader.

The triplets shrunk the circle around him, forcing him to backtrack until his backpack clapped the green metal lockers on the other side of the hall. The much fuller, taller, and stronger twelve-year-olds suffocated his personal space, sending his breathing into an uncomfortable canter. The boys taunted him one more time to hand over his orange bag that normally held loads of change he'd collected for Dad. Over the shoulder of Fumiya-senpai on his left, a hint of hope shined for the prey. Another of his classmates, a boy with crimson hair and the bluest eyes known to man stepped out if the class room across the hall that The Boy was supposed to be in. He froze halfway out the door however as his attention fell straight on his cornered friend.

The Boy stood on his toes and locked entreating eyes with him. "Ushio-kun…!"

The triplets turned and glared at the other ten-year-old Shoma Ushio who was significantly sturdier than The Boy, almost the same size as themselves. The newcomer looked from his pleading friend to the three bullies. They didn't need to say a single word. Ushio-kun rapidly spun back into the classroom, scratching the back of his head like he'd seen nothing at all and couldn't remember why he'd stepped out in the first place.

"Ushio-kun!" The Boy's eyes burned with outrage as hope was knocked out and replaced by the first of many jabs at his trust that were to come. The triplets chuckled at the former's easy retreat while The Boy cried after his friend through the closed door. "Coward! I would have stood up for you!"

"Aww… how sad…" Fumiya-senpai pouted his lips. "Even your buddy Shoma-chan doesn't care."

"C'mon, guys, just grab his stuff. We gotta get to class."

With that all three started gripping, tossing, and shoving The Boy like a ragdoll, peeling the backpack off his fragile shoulders. Fuminori-senpai unzipped the pack and started rummaging through his books while the other two pinned him against the lockers.

When the brothers had dumped his notebooks, textbooks, pencils, and all other contents of the backpack on the floor only to realize The Boy had told the truth, they flung the empty bag onto the mess of supplies. Fumiya-senpai suggested they keep The Boy busy for the next few periods so they had a chance to escape when he told on them to the teachers.

"How about there?" Fuminori-senpai pointed to the janitor's closet at the end of the wall.

The three exchanged chortles and grabbed The Boy who writhed manically at their grip. Fumiya-senpai opened the dark closet and pulled out a metal fold-out chair to block the door from the outside. The other two found The Boy stronger than usual as he flung punches and smacks, biting their hands and stomping their feet.

"Gah!!" Fumitaka-senpai gritted his teeth as the frantic kid landed an elbow in his gut, wide-eyes and feverishly pleading mercy. "The heck is wrong with you!? Ya scared of a dark little closet??"

The triplets had no clue what a horror they were triggering in him. Sweat dampened his skin, his heartbeat pulsing numb all over as he cried out that he was in fact terrified of a dark little closet. Swimming in panic and losing his breath, shoes flat and tripping as they shoved the closet ever closer, The Boy resorted to what most would consider melodrama. To him it was survival instinct. At the top of his breathless lungs he shrieked for help, so earsplittingly the bullies cringed and covered their ears.

"Hagiwara!"

All three brothers wheeled towards the shout and sound of footsteps striding closer. The Boy wrought himself free of their grip and staggered back, pulling his uniform straight, and panting, turned also to follow their distraught stares. From the stairwell end of the hall came Watanabé-sensei rushing upon them. As the teacher drew nearer, chiding the triplets, The Boy pulled his inhaler out of his pocket slowly, staring at the ground, not sure if he was more relieved or mortified by the sight of his favorite teacher.

"What on earth makes you three think you can keep getting away with this?!" The man frowned at the upperclassmen, the two of which that had been holding The Boy backing away swiftly as he stormed nearer.

"What did they do?? Where are you hurt?" The teacher rushed to The Boy and pulled him to his feet. The latter shook his head while his hands trembled the adrenaline slowly away, leaving him embarrassed at having made Watanabé-sensei worry. The yelling reawaked his migraine. The young man insisted question after question until finally The Boy looked him in the eye.

"I'm not hurt, I'm fine…" he croaked.

"But you screamed!" Watanabé-sensei's eyes were wide behind his thick glasses, "What were they doing?"

"N-nothing…" he lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper, confident this teacher was the only person in the building who'd be empathetic if he told the truth. "I'm just… scared of the dark."

The silence that followed was one of understanding. It gave the child drastically more consolation than any of his concerned questions. Watanabé-sensei's eyes went calm and he nodded sadly. Glancing back at the Hagiwaras trying to sneak away, he gave a couple solid pats to The Boy's shoulders, wordlessly giving him the time to sniffle and blink away the post-traumatized tears welling in his eyes.

The teacher glanced at the mess of The Boy's supplies and sighed. "You three." He said firmly and the triplets reluctantly turned to face him. "I want you to go pick up his things and put them back in his bag as neatly as you found them."

The three begrudgingly obeyed.

"Your head…" said Watanabé-sensei turning to The Boy again and stooping with his hands on his knees. "Did they do that?? There's no way it could already be that bruised…"

The Boy quickly brushed his bangs back to cover it like Dad had done. "I-I already had this. Fell off my skateboard."

The man didn't nod understandingly. The Boy hung his head, feeling the teacher's unusually long stare, like he didn't believe him. Finally the triplets came forward and handed him his backpack, bulging and barely zipped. He was sure he'd open it to find nothing but a mess of crinkled papers and loose pens.

"Now back to class." Watanabé-sensei ordered. "Each of you has already earned a tardy and I have half a mind to call your parents as it is so I recommend no more of this disruptive behavior. Am I understood?"

The Boy was the first to rush and obey, but the teacher took him by the shoulder, "Not you. We need to have a chat."

So the twelve-year-olds trotted down the hall, already whispering and snickering before they were hardly out of the teacher's earshot.

The teacher headed to the stairwell and beckoned the child to follow.

"Wait, Sensei." The Boy pleaded, pointing to the classroom Ushio-kun had come out of. "I'm sorry I made you worry, but whatever you want to tell me can it please wait until after school? I'm already late for Nishioka-sensei's class and she said if I don't prepare well for this test I might lose my place at the top of my class. I-I can't lose my place at the top of my class…"

"Relax, buddy." The teacher soothed. "I already told Nishioka-san I'll be taking you for a teacher's aide for the first period. She has prepared the extra study material for you."

The Boy followed his leisurely stride. "But don't you have a class for first period?"

A sorrowful shadow passed over Watanabé-sensei's young face. "No… no I'm afraid I'm not having any classes today."

The Boy followed his teacher up the stairs towards the reading room, his shame withering as the man struck up light conversation. Even the kid's headache dissipated at the reminder there was a safe place with this teacher in the library. But when they reached his classroom it struck none of the familiar memories The Boy had learned to call home. Just yesterday the walls were covered in the green and yellow school colors and pictures of Watanabé-sensei's beloved daughters. His desk in front of the blackboard normally displayed an arrangement of souvenirs and merchandise from his favorite local soccer teams. But both it and the walls were stripped bare like they had never worn the sports-loving, free-spirited personality his students adored. Watanabé-sensei stepped in and sat heavily at his desk, sipping a bottle of green tea. Books taken off of the huge library shelf on the back wall sat packed away along with his other possessions in half a dozen card board boxes. The only lingering hint of him was the aroma of his signature green tea scented air-freshener.

The Boy hesitated in the doorway, but didn't ask. He was afraid of the answer.

"I'm almost finished here," the teacher flicked his now very long ponytail off his shoulder. "But maybe you could help me pack the last few boxes."

His eyes did drift around the bland room and boxes on the floor, but recovered with a cordial wink at the kid. Normally The Boy would return the grin. Normally these sessions helping Watanabé-sensei were the best of all his school memories. The man would let him borrow all and any books from his huge personal library kept in the classroom. By asking the child's daily review of a book, Watanabé-sensei gave him not only a conversation worth looking forward to every day, but a sense of initiative to read at a higher level and excel in class.

But the child had seen this all before. He didn't like the look of people packing. So far it always meant him getting left behind.

The teacher stood after a brief silence and piled folders of paper and arranged the last stack of books in a folded out box. Squashing the flaps of cardboard down as flat as possible, he held the bulging box closed and asked The Boy to pass the tape roller. The Boy offered the tape, using the whole weight of his upper body to hold the box while the teacher sealed it. Finally he couldn't stand the silence.

"Are you leaving, Sensei?"

Watanabé-sensei sat back and nodded with a morose smile. "Yes, sadly… I've… been laid off." Catching The Boy's blank stare he went on, "It means they fired me… politely."

The man explained how the principal of this school needed to cut down on staff lately. "But it's alright. Reading is an easy enough subject for one of the other teachers to pick up once I'm gone; they won't even have to hire a replacement. I think… it'll be best for the school when all is said and done." He talked like he was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to explain it to The Boy.

The kid screwed up his face, knowing exactly why they really let him go first. Watanabé-sensei was never popular with the other teachers. Not only was he a good twenty years younger than most of the other teachers and way more charismatic, but they all said he was too lenient on the students. And in that sense, even The Boy had to admit the man was about as meek as they come. Yet, the principal was making a huge mistake. There's no way this dump of a school could benefit from losing the only teacher that loved all the students equally. It was unfair, but it made sense and The Boy understood completely. After all, despite his excelling grades he was never any teacher's favorite either. In fact he might have been the least favorite of several of them, having been caught more than once stealing food from the cafeteria after lunch. But you'd do it too if you didn't know if you'd get to have dinner when you got home.

"I'm… sorry you're leaving." He muttered quietly, gingerly arranging some magazines on top of the last cardboard box full of books.

"I'm certainly going to miss all of you…" Watanabé-sensei zipped up his bag full of personal mementos, "Especially our little reading times. I have no doubt you and your wits are going to carry you easily through the rest of your subjects. I only wish I could be here to see it."

The Boy smiled. It was always so easy to make Watanabé-sensei proud.

"Even so, you don't exactly attend the most prestigious school," the teacher went on, "And… I understand the principal's desire to keep lesser quantity and better quality teachers."

"The principal's stupid." The Boy mumbled. "Everyone else he hires is a grumpy old fart. He wouldn't know a good teacher if it stabbed him in the eye."

A laugh burst from the young man but he swallowed it back and tried hard to act composed. "Hey, you're too young to talk about your superiors like that!" He chided, but humor still shone in his suppressed smirk. "But I am flattered you think so highly of me. I'll remember that."

As The Boy finished writing a label on a box, Watanabé-sensei came and slowly knelt, sitting back on his feet before the child. The youth asked what was the matter, seeing the very uncharacteristic shift in his teacher's aura. Silence fell on the space briefly and the sounds of children rushing out of classrooms and filling the halls buzzed through the walls. The man pushed his glasses up his nose and finally, painfully reluctant, looked The Boy in the face.

"There is… something I wanted to ask you." He held irregular eye-contact, speaking very soft and deliberately. "Normally I'm not supposed to bring up something like this without another staff present but… I know you aren't comfortable with any of the others. And uh… we don't have to make this a big deal as long as you promise me you'll answer honestly, okay?"

"Am I in trouble?" The Boy asked sheepishly.

"No, no, of course not." The teacher assured, "I'm just a little… concerned for you."

"Okay." The Boy muttered his response almost inaudibly. The sensation of vulnerability and self-awareness crept back into his nerves. Surely Watanabé-sensei would never pry on anything too personal would he? He hated confrontation too much for that.

"Alright, well," the man cleared his throat and blinked a few times like he was remembering a dialogue he'd prepared. "You know I don't want to pry or make you uncomfortable, but I just felt the need to let you know… at least once before I leave that… you are safe here. And although a lot of us do act like grumpy old farts sometimes, we are here to give you whatever you need. So, if there's anything you feel you need that you aren't getting at home, I'd like you to tell me, alright? Your father… doesn't have to know."

The Boy's heart dove into his gut. His home life was none of the teachers' business. Dad frequently reminded him of that.

"I don't understand what you mean." He uttered.

Watanabé-sensei took a deep breath. "Well… I know since your father stopped working as a police officer, he's been pretty reclusive. And that's okay. Sometimes men and women who come out of service like that have seen things that make them not want to be around people too much. But there have been rumors going around that he… has some aggressive tendencies. And I've been talking to the nurse and we are both just a little concerned about how often you seem to be injured."

The teacher's voice was tender and calm as could be, but with each word more and more icy anxiety seeped into the child's gut. Dad never told him what to say if a teacher was this bent on questioning.

"I'll just ask this once." The teacher said carefully. "Does your father ever hurt you? Does he have anything to do with your bruises? I'm here to help you, but I need you to be honest."

The Boy broke eye contact and fidgeted, his brain frantically grasping at straws. "I-I just… fell off my skateboard."

The adult nodded slowly. "Did he tell you to say that?"

Dad's smile this morning telling him he was a "smart boy" flickered across the child's mind. "No." he urged. "No, my dad loves me. He doesn't want to hurt me. He's… he's a good man!"

"Of course," Watanabé-sensei said quickly. "I'm not trying to say he isn't."

"It's okay," The Boy urged himself, thinking out loud. "He and I are going for ice cream after school."

There was a brief silence and finally his teacher stood again. "That's good." He said with an awkward smile. "As long as you're sure."

The Boy met his teacher's stare bravely, clutching his hands to keep them from shaking. "I'm sure."

The words left his mouth and surprised him, tasting like a lie so blatant it even disgusted himself.

The teacher spun round and moved to his work on the desk again. "Very good. I'm sorry for making false accusations. I only wanted to do my part so I could leave with no regrets, you know?"

The air cleared again, but a frigid rock was just starting to sink in The Boy's stomach. A bell rang in the hall and the teacher started gathered his tote bag.

"Second period already? Time sure does fly." He said very comfortably, obviously relieved, and as if the confrontation had never happened. "Come on, I won't make you late for another class."

With a hand on his shoulder the man lead The Boy to the door.

"Will I see you again before the day's over??" the child asked worriedly.

"I'm afraid not." Replied the man, closing the door behind them. "I have to clear out before noon."

The two walked the hall towards The Boy's next classroom, history, which drew closer all too quickly. Before he could process his emotions, they reached the classroom and Watanabé-sensei opened the door for him

"Farewell, my friend." He bowed to The Boy with an encouraging wink.

The Boy opened his mouth to say something, but never figured how to form those words, whatever they were. He put his head down and offered his deepest, most respectful bow.

All he could tearlessly manage was, "Thank you, Watanabé-sensei… For everything."

"It's been my pleasure, bud." He turned and strode back to his classroom to gather his boxes. The ties of a fate that could have been between the fatherly and the innocent snapped that day as The Boy loathingly took his seat beside his only apparent friend left in this school: Shoma Ushio.

"Hey, man, what kept you?" Ushio-kun leaned over and whispered. "I missed you in Math, I didn't understand a word of what that old coot said."

The Boy shot a deathly glower at his classmate. "Don't act like you don't know."

Ushio-kun's tuned down the swagger just enough for a half-hearted apology. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry about that. But you know I couldn't have taken the Hagiwaras!"

The Boy ignored him, pulling his history textbook out of the mess of papers the triplets had shoved in his backpack, slamming them down on his desk. He wished more than anything the principal would just send him away with Watanabé-sensei.

"C'mon, man, I'll make it up to you!" Ushio-kun urged.

"Don't bother." The Boy muttered cynically, slouching over his book.

"Okay, good." Ushio-kun relaxed back in his seat. "Oh, and after school you're helping me with Nishioka-sensei's assignment."

The Boy lifted his head with a small smirk. "No." he said, happy but firm like he was still trying to convince himself it was true, "My dad's picking me up after school. We're getting ice cream."

"Ugh, fine." Said Ushio-kun. "Then don't make plans tomorrow."

. . .

When school got out and the horde of children rushed down the steps to race their bikes home or climb into their parents' waiting vehicles, The Boy scanned the campus yard for his father but couldn't find him. So he parked himself on the curb. He waited. He got tired of standing. He sat down and waited some more. The rest of his classmates and teachers cleared out as the afternoon sun sank slowly closer to the horizon and the shadows from the orange leaves falling all around shifted over the child. Soon the campus was desolate aside from the expectant kid. The wind picked up and his ears stung from the cold, his airways drying and closing up on him. He hoped Dad was on his way. His inhaler was almost empty.

But the minutes ticked on. Ten minutes turned to twenty. Twenty turned to thirty and soon The Boy wondered if it was getting close to dinner time. A few bikers would pass him on the sidewalk, none of them his parent. Before the urge to cry constricted his throat too tightly he got up and marched down the street to the ice cream parlor. He asked the cashier if a tall blonde-haired man on a bike had come in at any point today waiting for someone but the employee said he hadn't seen anyone who fit that description. When he asked the man what the time was and he said it was half past five, The Boy all but rushed out the shop.

Furious, the child began the long walk home, hoping against hope he made it back before curfew.

So much for a second chance with Dad. In his anger and hurt he wondered if it was too late to go back and tell Watanabé-sensei the truth.

_To be continued..._


	6. Chapter 5 - “The Cowardly Boy”

The Boy's squatted on the scorching pavement beside the neighborhood dumpster off the main road, a muggy summer wind sweeping through his hair.

"Oh, come on. I promise it's not poisoned or anything." He timidly offered a small slice of bread to the gray neighborhood stray.

The cat cowered and hissed, pressing its body to the ground under a newspaper that had been blowing in the breeze. The Boy gingerly tugged the newspaper off the feline. The rigid hissing turned to angered yowling through the animal's small barred fangs.

He put the slice of bread down on the concrete and sat back, throwing hands up in submission. "Okay! I won't try to pet you. Just eat the bread, please? You're skinny and I need a friend – we can call it even."

Instead the cat bolted out from the paper, around the dumpster, and in a flash of gray disappeared into the neighborhood. Rushing away from the noise of the cars he bolted after her but she was already gone.

"Damn it!" He snatched his ball cap off his head and chucked it to the cracked cement at his feet. "C'mon! I'm just trying to feed you!"

The eleven-year-old kicked at his hat. The cat must be stupid. It only made sense that they, the two scrawniest and ignored creatures on the block should come to acquaintance. Each had something of survival value to offer; like nutrition… or a friendship to cure the loneliness that comes with four years of secret letters from a family you weren't sure you'd ever get to see again.

The Boy dropped to crossed legs in the middle of the empty street and picked at wildflowers cracking through the cement. It was a futile plan to begin with. Cats don't eat bread, but it was all he had left from lunch when Dad kicked him out of the house – he always got kicked out when the man stressed over his new job working from the computer. And considering his father had chugged three beers already before ten this morning, he thought today seemed a good day to stay out as long as possible. The Boy had been trying to get used to being kicked out lately because he had reason to believe Dad might actually try to keep _this_ job. After all, he didn't have to leave the house for it.

The Boy still mulled sourly how much better off they'd be if he'd just kept his position as a police officer. But his father had secrets to keep about that area of his past and his son knew better than to question it.

If only the kid had a friend in the neighborhood, he might not mind these aimless afternoons in the sweaty heat of the day. But only sorry people lived in this sorry rural place. There were sorry penniless old people and sorry deadbeat college kids, but few families.

Once, a couple years ago The Boy did come across a family, the Akatsukas, who had four kids around his age. Finding them riding their bikes on the other end of the block, he lead the group in a race back to the red post box, bikes versus skateboard. When the finish line came in sight, though, so did a very drunk Dad who stood outside the apartments screaming at The Boy for having left his sight and talking to strangers. The other children were sent fleeing back home. The next day The Boy skated past their house – bruised noticeably – and said hello to them playing in the yard. They must have told their parents about his father's behavior though, because their mother soon rushed out the door and gathered her children inside. Cagily she told him to go home and not to come visiting again for fear he might get her children in trouble with the notorious drunkard. Word traveled fast in this neighborhood and that was the end of The Boy's social endeavors without Dad's reputation getting in the way. For now, the stray cat was his only hope of finding a local friend.

The stray appeared again from behind the bushes between two houses, meowing casually. The Boy sprung to his feet only to find the cat running towards Ohara-san standing on his porch at the bend in the road.

"Here, Nyako-chan." The latter pulled up his robe slipping over his shoulder and set a bowl of milk next to a pot of dried-up plant. "How about some warm milk instead of moldy bread?"

Nineteen-year-old Mitsue Ohara was one of the sorry dead-beat college students littering the hood. The cat started to lap up the milk, allowing the latter to pet her tattered tail. He gazed back at The Boy across the street with conceit disguised in a pitying smile. The kid scooped up his cap and pulled it over his eyes to conceal a pout. Ohara-san waved haughtily and the younger spun on his heel and marched towards his apartment.

_"Show off. Two can play at that game."_

. . .

Sneaking through the front door, the reek of alcohol singed the kid's nose hairs as he shut it noiselessly. He waited, gazing at the kitchen and what little he could see of the den until the buzz of the fans were interrupted by the sound of Dad's snores. Creeping past the short hall, there lay the man sprawled on the sofa, laptop open on the coffee table with papers all around flapping in the blow of the rotating fan on the carpet.

Already knowing he was too short to reach, The Boy clambered onto the countertop to pull open the kitchen cabinet. Peering up the cramped shelves he pushed aside a couple cans of beans and corn to grab a cylinder of tuna. In the process his hand kicked the stack of mushrooms and with a shrill gasp he dived. His sneakers slammed and piercingly screeched on the tile as he caught the cans, nearly losing his footing. He held the aluminum containers to his chest, unmoving with his back to the den. The blood froze in his veins for several beats. No shouts. No noisy movement from the living room. Just the hum of the fans.

Deftly jumping back onto the counter, he replaced the other cans and closed the cupboard as quickly as quietly possible. He sighed a shallow breath of relief. Now to get a bowl of milk…

He stepped back into a very muscular abdomen.

"And what do you think you're doing with that?" Dad's voice was guttural, still half-asleep, but acutely pissed off nonetheless.

White fingers squeezing the aluminum can, The Boy rounded to face his red-faced dad who reeked of sweat and liquor. Shame and childish embarrassment churned his already terrified guts. Moving to press his back against the refrigerator – it made him feel safer somehow – he stammered his explanation that he wasn't sneaking a snack for himself but just trying to play with the stray. His eyes fell on his father's fist at his side, the thick wedding band still protruding threateningly.

"What have I told you about taking food without asking?"

The Boy eyed the metal ring, wondering if answering or staying quiet would dig a deeper hole.

"What did I tell you??" Dad demanded.

"You said not to."

"So what gives???"

The Boy thought quickly, "I was going to ask you before I took-"

"That's a lie!" Dad reeled and struck his son across the jaw, sending the petite adolescent whiplashing into the fridge. Groaning and gripping the back of his aching head, The Boy bent, defending from another blow. In times like this, Adrenaline was his best friend, never letting him feel the brunt of the pain until it was safe to do so.

The Boy balked as the man ripped the can out of his hands, striding and shoving it into the cabinet again.

"Damn, you're getting to be almost as bad as your sister was." The father grumbled, "Still just like your mother, though… Lying to my face then sitting there like a pathetic dog when I call you out."

Dad started to move back to the couch. The kid's jaw stung keenly where the wedding band broke his skin; just another injury the teachers would overlook and bullies would pronounce. Minute memories lingered of the days when that ring was a symbol of the love Mom and him shared. Now he used it to beat The Boy and spit on the woman's memory.

The Boy scowled at his father's broad back. "What's so wrong with that?"

Dad stepped to a halt. Turning around leisurely he raised his brows scathingly "Excuse me?"

Fond thoughts of her most recent letter heated The Boy's flair for attitude. "I said, what's so wrong with me being just like Mom?"

This past year, longing for his mother incensed a stronger rejection of his father. And today the eleven-year-old made a mistake he rarely did: arguing with the drunk.

"What's so wrong??" Dad yelled and strode back to the child. "Well, I guess there's not anything wrong if you aspire to be a lying, hopeless adult who finds comfort in making someone else out to be the bad cop!"

The Boy glared at the floor, saying under his breath, "You mean like you?"

The retort left his tongue louder than he thought it would, resonating in the droning sound of the squeaky fans. Maybe the child would have thought before he spoke if the room was silent and terrifyingly still as usual. Instead the incessant zipping and tapping of whiny blades in the air prodded irately at his temper.

A deathly silence followed The Boy's words that was only interrupted by the drunk bursting into a cynical cackle. The child gritted his teeth.

The man lurched, grabbing his son by the collar and shoving him back against the refrigerator. "You think you're a real smart ass, huh??"

The Boy flinched at the knuckles against his throat. He turned his face away from his father's that was inches away, all but holding his breath from the stench on the hard breath. He couldn't let Dad see him scared anymore. Both Mom and Big Sis deserved to be defended with bravery.

"I did what I did because it was my duty as head of the household." The man seethed. "She did what she did out of cowardice because she couldn't handle a little retribution."

The Boy stared into his father's face; though the man had just hit thirty-nine his features wore the lines of one who'd suffered a longer and harder life. Maybe that's what years of being wrong does to you, the kid thought. Because his father _was_ absolutely wrong.

"She's not a coward, Dad…"

The parent shook him by the shoulders and screamed his accusation again. The Boy's eyes stung from the sake on his father's breath.

"She's not a coward!" The Boy insisted though his face sagged sorrowfully. His insides writhed, begging him to balk. Sure, Mom deserved to be defended, but what's the point in getting beaten for an act of bravery she'd never even see?

"Don't you dare sit there with that same self-righteous look like she used to flaunt!" Dad's eyes were slits of hot anger. "As if she was so much better than me! She wasn't!!"

Dad's grip constricted, squeezing the last of The Boy's better judgment away and replacing it with a desperate terror to boil his blood. Finally the child's tongue snapped.

"You're just mad 'cause you miss her!"

The father's hands loosened.

"That's the reason you still wear her ring, isn't it?!" The Boy cried in his face. "You're still upset that she left you!"

Silence.

The ticking of the fan blades sounded more like a bomb's timer. Too petrified to look away, he watched his father let him go and stand straight. The difference between the pair was as plain as a lion to a pup.

_"__I'm so dead."_

Dad folded his arms, set his jaw, and replied in a soft, breathy, and chilling tone.

"…I'm going to give you to the count of three to take that back and apologize."

Wide-eyed and dismayed by his own stupidity, The Boy shook his head, unsure if he was disobeying or trying to deny the inevitable.

"Apologize…now…" Dad's lips chewed each word. "…Or spend the rest of the day locked in the _dark _closet. Your choice."

There it was. The second the parent mentioned the dark punishment, the son all but crumpled in tears. He felt a noose tighten around his lungs and reached for the drawer on the counter where his emergency inhaler was kept.

Dad snatched wrist away and began the countdown. "One…"

The Boy truthfully was not sorry. He meant what he said.

"Two…"

Was there anything wrong with just pretending to comply?

Dad hissed through his teeth "Two and a half…"

Sweat broke out on The Boy's flesh as panic finally smashed his courage. "I- I'm sorry!" he burst, "I didn't mean it, I'm sorry!"

"Say it properly." Dad ordered in the same meticulous tone. "You're sorry and you admit your mother was a coward. Say. It. Now."

"But…"

"Three!" Dad's face ignited with satisfaction. "I hope you like sleeping with the monsters."

Dragging The Boy by the collar of his t-shirt he towed him around the counter.

"No, Dad, I said I'm sorry!!" the tween punched and pulled at the big arm.

Dad hauled him through the living space and into the hall towards the bedrooms, drawing back the sliding door to the coat closet.

"Dad! Please, Dad, let me go!! I'm sorry!!" The Boy shrieked and writhed until he slipped out of his shirt and cap leaving his parent fuming.

He bolted for the door but was caught by the throat coughing and gagging as Dad shoved him into the space. His bare back felt the tickle off the coats and the closeness of the black walls. The father pushed the sliding door, the line of the hallway light shrunk and the black walls drew closer.

"Ok! Ok, ok I admit it!" The Boy wedged himself in between the door and the wall. "She was a coward, I know she was! You're right! I-I'll never talk to her again, I promise!!!"

Holding the kid's neck at arms length, Dad tilted his head to the side and squinted. "What do you mean… talk to her _again_??"

The Boy's face went white. "I-I mean I won't ever go look for her! I don't… I don't want to see her again… ever. I'll s-stay here with you!"

He said it because he knew it was what Dad wanted to hear. A moment later it sunk in and he was appalled at his own ability to manipulate the man.

Dad yanked his son out of the closet and slammed the door shut. "If I ever catch you taking that insolent tone with me again, so help me gods, you will stay grounded in the dark for the rest of your life, have I made myself clear?!"

"Yes, sir…" The Boy croaked.

Dad threw the t-shirt still in his hand at him, moving to the drawers in the kitchen grabbing the emergency inhaler, snatching up his son's hat on the ground, and throwing them at him too. The child quickly put his shirt back on. His friend Adrenaline was fading now, leaving ample room for a new, more permanent, more oppressive friend named Regret.

The man moved back to the den. "Now get the hell out and find some other way to entertain your filthy cat. Just don't bring any of its diseases home with you!"

Pulling the cap over his head The Boy paced to the door calmly with a gasp from the inhaler. When the door had closed behind him as quietly as he first opened it, he ran, almost falling down the stairs all the way to the bottom floor.

Out into the street he flew against the sultry bemoaning wind. Jumping over the sidewalk railing, he passed the red post box and carried on down the thin grass-line beside the concrete low wall separating the neighborhood from the surrounding overgrown nature park.

Bitter remorse chased him until he panted like a dog. But he couldn't stop. His first real meeting with Regret was hateful and so far he wanted no kind of friendship with this feeling.

To his right the Akatsuka house and those of many more he was never allowed to know flew by. He ignored these, watching the wall all the while he ran the length of it, searching for his opening until finally, almost two blocks away he came to the break. The breach was several feet wide and footed by weeds and debris of the crumpled cement with a sign that had sat there for years telling people construction was coming soon. The Boy hopped over and slowed to a jog down the hill on a well-worn path through the woods.

The Boy had discovered this opening to the forest shortly after Mom left, and ever since had come here often to explore and play. As of now, there was one very solid dirt and dead leaf trail belonging to him, which he'd been traveling regularly every month since Mom's first letter came.

A couple branches snagged at his shorts which he swatted away as he jogged against the wind howling through the foliage. Finally when he thought his chest might burst from the waves of guilt, he came to the huge open grove where the blue sky lay stark against the white hot sun. Up a gradual hill was the dilapidated arched structure of some ancient building, and a little farther back was the highway to the city. In the whirring of the hot breeze, the stickiness of his sweaty back, the sound of locusts screeching, and far off cars on the road, The Boy was at last far enough away from Dad.

Adrenaline had done his job. Time to let Regret take over.

Catching a shaking breath he moved forward in the wide bed of grass. The wind had blown leaves all around today so he couldn't see the mark he left for himself. Stomping the earth in circles, finally a dense hollow thud broke from his shoes on wood. He plopped down heavily by a large patch of crushed brown leaves. Regret was really beating the sides of his heart in now, and The Boy welcomed the angry string of choice words that kicked himself inwardly as he brushed dirt and dead leaves away from the heavy wooden door in the ground. The square panel was attached to rusty metal hinges and fastened by a tarnished bolt lock. He grabbed the handle and pulled the rotting flap up on its hinges to let it flip over on the other side of the hole, the aroma of wet earth and mold rising out of it. Though no bigger around than a fireplace, with the sun shining straight down the kid could see the stone bottom of the cellar about eight feet below. To The Boy's right and left, there were pockets built into the stone walls of the hole like shelves. When he first found it he guessed it must be all that was left of some storm or storage shelter used by the same ancient people who might have built the old archway remains atop the hill.

Bent down The Boy could reach one of the upper pockets, which ironically was the perfect size to fit his cherished shoebox full of his mother's letters he'd been collecting over the years.

Did you really think he would have ever risked hiding such a treasure under his father's roof?

He pulled open the soggy cardboard and rested the box in his lap, inside finding the precious mess of letters. He stared at the contents until the sense of faultiness grew unbearable. When he realized the shame attached to those cowardly words his father drew from him, The Boy couldn't think of anywhere to run but here. Here, the only place safe enough to exist these dangerous sentiments. Slapping the dirt off his hands, he dug through the pretty envelopes, loathing the awful untrue things he just allowed to slip his tongue. The Boy flipped through the collection of photographs Mom and Big Sis had sent him. The tightness in his throat threatened he might cry as he stared at their smiling faces celebrating his birthday last year though he wasn't there.

He neatly piled the photos again and bound them carefully in a rubber band. Next, he picked up Mom's most recent letter…

_"Baby, I wish I could be there with you more than anything. Whatever happens, promise me you'll mind your father, okay? I worry about his drinking. So do whatever it takes to stay out of trouble. And don't worry about upsetting me; I just want you to be safe. I'm already proud of you and each of your letters is the highlight of my month. You are the bravest person I know! I wish I could see you right now but until then just keep up a positive attitude. I would tell you to stay strong but, knowing you, I don't think you need to be reminded._

_ Missing you like crazy,_

_ Mom." _

"I miss you too, Mom…"

The Boy dropped the letters back into the box and brought his palms to his eyes. No matter how hard he tried to wipe them away, the tears just kept squeezing through.

The sparse chirping of a few birds, the rhythmic buzzing of locusts and the whispers of the waft in the underbrush made the whole area feel close. Somehow its lack of interaction, of human presence, enhanced The Boy's feeling of well-earned isolation. Its tranquility offered ample room to interpret an all-around self-administered guilt trip.

_"Stupid idiot… Why can't I just be who she thinks I am?"_

He asked it like he was clueless, but the answer was clear. He could never love his mother and father with the same heart. Sorry people like him don't get that luxury. The real question he should have been asking was which one he was willing to give up. To you that might sound like a choice between heaven and hell: easy. But I dare you to walk a day in our shoes. _Then_ try to tell me it's easy to quit loving the person who raised you.

_To be continued..._


	7. Ch 6 - “Something to Write Home About”

Afterwards, his days saw the same routine as always for about a year. Although he never thought he enjoyed his monotone life, he'd soon miss it when something drastic did finally kindle from the dark…

By early July the kid was already feeling the ripeness of his tween years. Today the twelve-year-old skated out towards the rural train station on the edge of the rice fields. The dirt sidewalk coming from the city limit sign turned to gravel and he kicked up his board, treading towards the station beside the tracks: a simple patch of cement under a pavilion that sheltered a few benches and exactly four bike stands.

Fiddling with the sucker in his mouth, he stepped up on the platform, meandering through the sparse crowd around the benches and toward the other side where a sidewalk appeared again that would eventually lead to the back alleys of his neighborhood. The Boy was lucky enough to thieve the cash out of a wallet someone dropped at the hardware store earlier and, his collection bag happily full to the brim, wanted to get home before the rattling thunderclouds decided to burst. As he wove through the chattering of voices and the pulsing breath of the wind on concrete a sound soothing and nostalgic grasped his ears.

He stopped in his tracks, eyes falling on the musician sitting at the public piano against the wall. (Yes, of all things they chose an upright piano to fill the extra space of this crowded station.) Although the girl's back was to him, that long lavender hair was unmistakable. His feet moved him closer to the piano despite his stomach on the verge of a cartwheel. Like The Boy, she was petite for her age, about the same height as him too, feet dangling from the tall bench. He dared to creep to the side just a bit to see her face bent to her hands as her song picked up a trotting melody.

The girl's name was Ria Ryuuji, as everyone knew. Her angelic features and flawless manners were the gossip of all the local mothers. Many conjectured how this desolate town had acquired such a gem, since her family was renowned and wealthy. But The Boy knew more about her than most. Fate had put her in his class at school. Truth be told she had transferred to his school last summer to stay with her aunt and uncle every school year while her parents were busy traveling, doing whatever big-city work rich people do.

The Boy listened to her play, probably not knowing how odd he looked watching intently. She was by no means an expert musician, but he relished the sounds anyway. When her song had finished, a couple people from the benches clapped and she glanced back with a bashful and humble smile and small bow. Then her eyes the color of fresh lime fell on him, his insides going numb as her freckled cheeks flashed him a friendly grin and asked if he was waiting for a turn to play. When she stood to make room for him he finally found a voice.

"U-Uh no, thanks!" He waved her to sit down again, "I can't. I mean, I don't know how."

Oh, and the most important thing to remember about this gal, was that, like most boys in his class, The Boy had quite the developing crush.

"You don't?" she frowned. "Sit here. I'll teach you."

He tried to refuse but she moved to the other end of the bench and patted the seat next to her. Tentatively he obliged, sitting on the very edge as far from her skirt draped over the seat as he possibly could.

She started by telling him the names of the black and white keys, then going on to explain more theory like octaves, flat and sharps, and some general melodies. He tried to grasp the lesson. But paying attention and acting appropriately is always difficult when you're thinking too hard on how to pay attention and act appropriately. The Boy lost track of time, copying her hand movements as she talked. Still his chords rang out curt and harsh with none of her tuneful flow.

"You're holding your fingers too stiff and flat." Ryuuji-san reached for his hand. "Arch your palm like this. Imagine you're holding a bubble between your hand and the keys. If you flatten your hand it'll pop."

Then came laughter from behind them and they both craned their necks.

"Aww," a young woman stood behind them and beamed. "Ria-chan you're as precious as ever. Who's your boyfriend?"

The Boy leapt from his seat and yanked his hand away from Ryuuji-san's. "B-B-Boyfriend?!"

The girl giggled at the woman who winked at her and walked away. Seeing her friend's red face as he snatched up his skateboard and bag, Ryuuji-san begged him to stay.

"I'll teach you more if you want," she said, "You're a natural!"

The Boy shook his head and smacked his own hot cheeks tetchily "No way."

"Sure you are. Who knows, maybe it runs in your family." She tapped the seat for him to sit again, but he stood and fingered the strap of his drawstring bag.

"My older sister does play piano." He found himself saying.

"I didn't know you had a sister. Does she go to the high school here?"

"Um… no, she's graduated now." The Boy glanced about and found a few faces watching them and whispering with amused smiles. "She actually lives with my mom in Okinawa."

"Oh." And the girl's smile waned timidly. "I see."

She must not know what it's like to have divorced parents, he thought with a grimace at himself for letting the subject come up. She absently went back to plucking notes on the keys, and his throat tightened. He didn't really want to go home now; this might be his only chance to make her a friend – he'd never get the chance to talk to her at school where she was always surrounded by the other boys. He rocked on his toes awkwardly, millions of small talk prompts leaping to mind all at once so he couldn't think of a single thing to say. That's when she turned her face to him and smiled as if to show off being able to play without looking.

"Oh my gosh!" she said out of the blue, staring hard at his face. "What happened? Your jaw is really bruised…!"

His stomach flipped. "Oh, uh… this is…" he stammered, rubbing the greenish shiner he'd earned the other day.

Thankfully before he had to form a lie she frowned mercifully, "You fell off that skateboard, didn't you?"

"Uh, yeah." He mumbled. "It's fine, though. Doesn't really hurt anymore."

"You're a lot braver than me, then."Ryuuji-san's bright eyes lit a bashful twinkle, "I would have cried like a baby if I hit my face like that, hehe…"

A couple butterflies chased the off the cold touch of diffidence. He pushed the memory of the beating out of his head and cleared his throat, shrugging his shoulders with a measly dash of confidence, "Eh… I've seen worse."

"Man…" she shook her head at the board at his side, "My dad would _never_ let me ride a skateboard."

"Why not?" The Boy latched onto the subject. "It's pretty convenient. It's a cheap way to get places and it's not too hard once you… o-once you get the hang of it."

He blushed and downcast his eyes. She was the richest girl in town and her family probably had more cash in their wallets than Dad ever made in his life; why was he trying to talk about the convenience of cheap transportation?

"I actually wanted to get one for a long time. Some of my friends from my old school had them." Ryuuji-san turned on the seat to face him. "But my father said that if I didn't like riding the bus or train or my bike to school, he would rent a personal driver to pick me up every morning. He wouldn't hear anything about me riding one of those'bone-breakers on wheels' as he calls them." She giggled, "Daddy is a little over-protective, but I think it's cute."

"Woah." The kid's mouth fell open and in his bewilderment at the thought he forgot all shame of being poor. "A private driver? Paid? Every day??"

"Yeah." She replied. "But I didn't want that. I just wanted to try riding a skateboard."

The Boy tightened his red rain-jacket tied to his hips and cleared his throat. "Um… You know these gravel roads around here are hard to ride if you haven't practiced, but… But, if you want, there's a skate rink a few blocks away from here with smooth sidewalks. I- I mean, in return for your showing me the piano, I could… I don't know, I mean, I was just thinking if you want someone to show you how…" Images of holding her hands to help her balance on the board leapt into his brain.

"Really??" she gasped.

"Sure." The board resting against his leg, he flicked one of the wheels and it spun wobbly. Maybe she'd be too embarrassed by such an old, cheap, dirty, beat up, paint-chipped squeaky excuse for a board.

"That is…" she said as her smile shrunk, "Very nice of you. But I shouldn't. My father would be worried about me getting hurt."

"I wouldn't let you get hurt." The words burst from his mouth faster than he could think them. When she smiled flatteringly he quickly recovered. "I mean, uh, it's not even that dangerous. Besides, your dad doesn't have to know… does he?"

Ryuuji-san's face lit with shock. "No, I could never! I've never disobeyed him in all my life, and if he were to find out I did something behind his back…" she turned back to the keys looking very distressed. "He'd think I don't trust him. No, thank you, but I couldn't do it without his permission."

"Right." The Boy nodded with a twisted expression of remorse. "Sorry." He muttered, feeling like trash for disrespecting her ardent loyalty to her father. I guess there was more than wealth and social statuses that set her in another world far beyond his understanding.

"Anyway," said the girl sitting straight again and putting her hands to the keys, striking some soothing arpeggios as she spoke. "Not to be rude, but I've noticed at school you have a lot of bruises. Do you fall off your skateboard often?"

"Yeah..." He still readily preferred the accusation of being a poor skater over the truth.

"Are you anemic?"

"What?"

"Anemic. It means your blood has an iron deficiency and makes you bruise really easily."

"Oh. Um, I don't think so." he said, "But the doctor said I have an unusually weak immune system, so I guess it would make sense if I had something like that..."

She commented that he should probably be tested for anemia. The Boy was flattered by her concern and impressed.

"So," he searched for another topic, "You like learning about medical conditions and stuff?"

Ryuuji-san nodded, explaining that she wanted to be a medical research scientist when she graduated high school.

"That'd be pretty impressive." The Boy said.

"Thanks." She smiled. "What about you?"

"Me?" he said thoughtfully. "I don't know… I guess I never really thought about it."

"Oh, come on." She insisted, "Everybody has _something _they want to do for the rest of their life."

It wasn't that he didn't think he had potential; after all, he had held his position at the top of the class all his life – that is until Ryuuji-san came along and had been giving him stiff competition ever since. Truth be told it was just that he spent most of his free time imagining what his life _right now _could be, wondering what it would be like to be a normal twelve-year-old with a normal amount of friends and a normal family. He'd never seen much farther into the future than the day the letter would finally come saying Mom was coming to take him home.

"I guess…" He hesitated, "I guess I just really want to have my own family someday."

"A family-man, huh?" she closed her eyes and smiled rosily, "How cute!"

The Boy flushed bright red. "Sh-shut up...!"

His attitude must have tickled her because she snickered so purely his ears forgot to notice the quick thumping of footsteps behind him.

"Hey there, little miss."

They both turned to find Shoma Ushio donned in his usual jean jacket approaching, holding a silver and black glossy skateboard making The Boy's look like a piece of plastic trash. Ushio-kun leaned his elbow on the smaller boy's shoulder, grinning charismatically at the girl at the piano.

"What brings you to town, Ushio-san?" said Ryuuji-san.

"Just the usual. Looking for trouble."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Just don't get yourself hurt."

"Me? Hurt? Please!" Ushio-kun finally stood straight off his friend. "I don't get _hurt, _what kind of weakling do you take me for?"

"Well, he and I were just talking about riding skateboards and how dangerous they are." She said, politely pointing out The Boy and his heart fluttered to see her trying to include him, then it sank remembering the bash on his face. Did Ushio-kun think he was a weakling too for being bruised all the time?

"Skateboarding, huh?" said the other boy charismatically, "Well if you ever wanna give it a try I just got this bad boy for my birthday." He lifted the board, tilting it to show the shimmer of the reflection on its finish. "I'd be glad to show you the ins and outs."

"Actually," said the girl, "He was just offering to help me learn. But, I'm not allowed."

Ushio-kun gave The Boy a very hard and disbelieving look up and down and didn't say anything more.

Now the attendant behind them shouted over the pavilion the destination of the next train pulling up to the platform.

"Oh, this is mine!" cried Ryuuji-san, standing and brushing her skirt down gracefully. "It was fun playing piano with you!" She bowed to The Boy who hurriedly did the same, almost dropping his skateboard.

"See you later, Ushio-san!" She waved back, slinging her purse and hopping on the train along with a small group from the benches.

"You bet!" called Ushio-kun with a smile.

The Boy was about to shout some sort of goodbye but in the split second before she stepped on the train he thought too hard, choked on his words, and nothing came out at all.

As the train pulled away and the sound of it zooming towards the city died off, Ushio-kun draped and arm around The Boy's thin shoulder and dragged him away from the piano.

"Let's head to the skate rink. I wanna show off my new board before it starts raining."

He might have noticed the strangeness of Ushio-kun actually wanting to hang out with him outside of school if he hadn't been too busy internally gawking at the fact that he just talked to a girl for almost half an hour.

"So." The taller of the two questioned dryly, "You got a thing for Ryuuji-chan or what?"

"Wha- ?!" The Boy flustered. "I just bumped into her that's all!"

Ushio-kun struck his breast dramatically. "…Then went on to play piano with her while gently caressing her hand during a romantic duet…!"

The Boy went scarlet up to his ears. "Shut up!! It wasn't like that!"

Shoma punched him in the shoulder surprisingly rough for someone only joking around.

"No need to feel ashamed." He sang, "I'm actually impressed a pipsqueak like you could get the attention of such a hottie."

The Boy glared up at him, both shocked at how maturely he talked about girls and annoyed by the low remark. The other flashed his charming beam.

"Take a joke!" he laughed, "In fact, since you aren't exactly the _most_ experienced with girls, you want some pointers on how to pick up a chick? Since you _obviously_ want to ask her to the dance this Friday."

The Boy frowned. "Wait… There's a dance?"

Ushio-kun pushed off his friend and scoffed. "Duh…The principal sent out a newsletter to all the parents like three weeks ago! What, does your dad live under a rock?"

"…Kind of, yeah."

"Listen, it's a dance for the whole school, a fundraiser for our graduation this year or something like that I don't know I wasn't paying attention to that part." Ushio-kun explained with an elbow nudge at The Boy's side. "And we get to bring dates!"

"Dates? Really?" The Boy screwed up his face. "That…doesn't sound like something the principal would host for our age group. You know how strict he is."

"Exactly." Ushio-kun said as they stood and waited for a car to pass at a stop sign. "That's why this is an opportunity you can't miss!"

The Boy chewed his lip while the car passed and his friend took the lead strutting across the street. He wouldn't have to tell Dad. On Friday night he could just pretend to be staying out really late collecting, and he could leave the dance early to still make curfew.

"I don't know, Ushio-kun." He muttered as they crossed the nearly empty parking lot in front of the skate rink. "If it's this close to the time of the dance she's probably been asked by someone already."

"Nah, dude, she's free game." The other insisted. "I've been talking to all the guys. No one has the guts."

The Boy raised his brows.

"I'm serious, dude." The other crossed his heart. "Just do as I say and you'll be the only dude in our class with the balls to ask her. Besides me, obviously. I _would_ ask her but I can't go. Busy this weekend. Anyway, since Friday is coming up soon I recommend you start preparing now so you can get dibs first thing Monday morning. C'mon, bro, I know you want to. And I've advised many-a-poor-suckers like you with a 100% success rate so far. Let me do this for you, as a thank you for bailing me out with Nishioka-sensei the other day."

He hadn't always been the most trustworthy of friends, but he was right about one thing. This wasn't a chance The Boy couldn't afford to miss. Ria Ryuuji was the only person besides Ushio-kun who talked to him at all. Why should he give up trying to be friends with her now? And no one could deny that if any of the boys in their class knew how to flatter a girl it was Shoma Ushio.

. . .

Dad had gone "collecting" as well today, and was thankfully still gone by four-o-clock when The Boy got home, having left a note for his son that he probably wouldn't be back before six. With the whole apartment to himself, The Boy took the luxury of emerging from his room. A notebook sat before him now and a pencil stood limply in his hand where he sat at the kitchen table listening to the rain sprinkling the kitchen window. Mom's last letter came two days ago, now it was his turn to reply. Chewing the pencil's eraser he tried to calm the smile that infected his sullen face for the past two hours. He never thought this opportunity would come. She could be his way of making new friends. Everyone loved her, so if they became close friends starting at the dance, maybe others would start liking him too. With heart swelling he wrote and crumpled page after page of the letter before he at last organized his thoughts: he had good news for once!

_ "You're never going to believe it, Mom, but I might be taking a girl to a dance this weekend! Isn't that crazy? She's the one I was telling you about. Today I saw her at the train station. There's a public piano there and she was teaching me how to play it a little. It was fun; I want Big Sis to teach me more when we're together again. Anyway, I talked to Ryuuji-san for a little while and she's so nice! She's kind and sweet… she reminds me of you, Mom. I'm hoping we'll be friends from now on."_

The Boy paused, scratched his head with the end of the pencil, and tried to recall skating with Ushio-kun and anything else his mother might want to hear.

Then came the sound of the lock turning.

_Cachack_

The Boy jumped out of his seat at the sound of the front door and frantically gathered the papers together, quite literally hurling the crumpled drafts into the trash as the door swung open.

Dad stepped in without a word.

The Boy freakishly tried to act calm, squeezing his letter tightly in his hands behind his back. "How did collecting go?"

"It was okay." The man said lazily. He stripped off his green jacket and kicked his shoes off at the door. The Boy stood like a statue, hardly breathing. Dad stepped to the counter and pulled a handful of chips out of the bag his son had opened, mumbling a question of how his son's day was.

The Boy backed away toward the hall way, meaning to reply but the lump in his throat only allowing a scared sort of hum.

Dad looked up from the bag of chips, and knitted his brows trying to glance around the pre-teen's back. "What've you got there?" he garbled doubtfully with a mouth full.

The Boy startled. "Got where?"

"Behind your back."

"Oh, this?" The Boy quickly pulled out the papers, "Just homework. They gave us a lot to work on yesterday and it has to be turned in tomorrow so… I'll be in my room if you need me."

Dad chewed another handful of chips and stared at his son. "…Tomorrow is Sunday, boy."

"Uh, I mean on Monday…"

The man scowled for a second longer before releasing the child from his glare and rolling up the bag of chips. Dad then tossed his leather collection satchel off his shoulder onto the countertop. Fishing into it with one hand, The Boy waited to see how much money his father would pull out, knowing he'd probably be asked to count it. Instead the big hand first drew out a banded together wad of magazines and envelopes.

The Boy's heart skipped a few beats.

"S-Sorry." He quaked. "It's my job to get the mail… But I already got it today, I swear! I put it on the counter this morning before you got up." The Boy pointed to this morning's issue next to the sink.

"I saw that." Dad swallowed a gulp and stretched. "You know how we didn't get any mail on Tuesday? Turns out we got put in Kirishima-san's post slot next door. I guess the old hag didn't remember to give it to us 'til I passed her in the hall just now."

The Boy couldn't speak for fear he might throw up as Dad's fingers pulled off the band with a snap and flipped through the envelopes.

Even if her last letter did seem written out of turn, she usually didn't write twice in a row. No way. It wouldn't happen. It couldn't.

Dad's finger's worked through the pile, tossing these and those into the trash, others setting aside. As the man tore open a bank receipt, he caught his son staring.

"You sick? You're white as a sheet."

"It's nothing." The Boy replied quickly, "I just um… forgot my drink."

The Boy discretely folded his letter and shoved it into his jeans pocket.

"Only water if you're going back to your room. I don't want stains in the carpet if you spill."

So The Boy picked up his empty glass of lemonade and went to the sink and leisurely rinsed it. Furtively gazing over his shoulder, the sound of the water running blurred to his eardrums. Dad picked up a baby-blue envelope, scowling at it with a whispered, "What the…?"

The Boy wheeled towards the man, wet glass slipping from his shaking hands and the sound of shattering on tile imploded the bubble of terror swelling in his chest. Dad spooked and glared back with a shouted curse.

"What has gotten_ into_ you today?!" he threw a towel at his son who fell to the floor sweeping up the glass with his hands. "Get it up good!"

Specks of blood splotched from the tiny shards sticking to his palms. But there was no pain, only horror. Dad huffed and turned back to Mom's missed letter. That decorative envelope and scrawling handwriting was distinctive.

A long silence followed while the man stared at the envelope. The Boy dumped the glass handful into the trash bin beside his father and Dad sneered, holding up the envelope in case his son hadn't seen it.

"It's addressed to '_my love.'_" He murmured, "Wrong address? Unless _you've_ got a secret admirer?" he pointed a glare at his son but his tone was far from joking. "_I_ sure as hell don't…"

"Ahahaha! That's funny, Dad." The Boy rubbed the back of his clammy neck.

Dad hummed again. The Boy hated when he did that. There was no way of telling what it meant.

"That's weird though," the man dropped it in the pile of letters to look through later. "No return address…"

The Boy had Mom's address memorized from day one, but since then she never wrote it on the envelope. She said it was to make them more personal; like love letters, not reminders of the miles separating them. Either way The Boy thanked his lucky stars that that was the case.

"Ah, dammit!" Dad smacked the countertop and threw his head back in a loud groan and his son well near jumped out of his skin.

"I completely forgot!" The man growled, moving to the door and pulling his rain jacket back on. "I got to stop at the bank! Looks like we're doing take-out for dinner."

"Okay." The Boy forced a grin onto his lips. "I'll have the table set when you get back."

"Don't forget to take out the trash."

"Yes, sir."

"Also, where's your collection today? Did you meet the quota??"

The Boy pointed to his bulging drawstring bag on the coffee table by the loveseat.

Dad finished tying his shoes. "Fine. I'll check it when I get back."

His eyes watched and pulse pounded as the parent moved at what felt like a snail's pace out the door. The second the door clicked shut, The Boy leapt to the pile on the counter and picked Mom's blue envelope, sprinting to Dad's dresser in the den. He pulled out scissors, tape, and more notepad paper. With the armful of supplies he ran to his room and slammed the door locked.

_"I have to be quick. He _can't _read this letter!"_

. . .

The misty rain was a full blown thunderstorm as The Boy leaned into the cellar in the forest, replacing the shoebox of Mom's letters with the newest one enclosed to be read later. The wind gusted so relentlessly the heavy wooden door all but crushed him before he scooted back up again on the sopping grass. Staring down the dark hole, he pulled his rain-jacket hood over his face to shield from the yowling wind pelting him with waves of rain.

_ "It's done…!" _The Boy wiped water out of his eyes with a muddy hand still bleeding from the glass. _"Since Mom thinks I have his permission, she won't always be careful enough about sending the letters. I've been lucky so far… but that was too close."_

Relief graced him despite the tumultuous spinning of leaves in the wind, bucketing rain over the open grove, and raging lightning searing veins into the sky.

As far as the mysteriously addressed envelope Dad was planning to read when he got home, The Boy was actually proud of his swift evasion of the crisis. Having removed Mom's letter, he drew up the best fake love letter he could, making it look like it was delivered by a stranger with the wrong address. This letter replaced Mom's real letter inside the envelope Dad had seen. The Boy was certain he wouldn't be able to tell it had ever been opened, especially considering he was normally too drunk by the time he looked through paperwork to notice much of anything.

But he still needed to get home before Dad, wash off this suspicious mess, and set the table.

The Boy stood with heavy wet clothes weighing his light frame down, but not before a huge flurry slammed the door and latch down, smashing his fingers and catching the hem of his jacket in the hinge. He gave a cry and snatched his hand up, pain igniting every nerve. He tried to jump up but his jacket strangled him to the lock. He picked at the hinges with bleeding, throbbing, and numb fingers.

A chill ran through his veins. Every hair on his body stood straight on end. His body reacted before his brain could process, flattening himself with face in the grass and hands over his head as the cacophonous explosion and flash of white light burst his eardrums and vibrated the earth beneath him. A few seconds of knife-like ringing passed. He didn't know how close it had struck but it was close enough for him to smell the singed tree. The Boy peeled his arms and body out of the caught jacket and sprinted the muddy trail all the way back.

Emerging from the rubble of the fallen wall his ears only started to regain hearing and the weight of what he just survived sank in. Back in open air and solid concrete he bent down with hands on his knees panting and shuddering. He boxed his own ears trying to whack the ringing away, panicking for a moment that his hearing wouldn't come back at all. Slowly it did, and the first thing he heard through the hazy hum was his father's holler calling his name.

"What the hell were you doing in there!?" Dad ran up to him with a bag of what might have been pizza boxes and yelled in his ear to be heard over the howling wind and smacking raindrops on the ground, hitting his son on the back to get him breathing again. "In a storm like this?! Are you trying to get struck by lightning??"

"Not at all." The Boy wheezed.

"Where's your jacket??!" said Dad, whose own hood was almost blown off by the wind. "Never mind, we're going home!"

He grabbed The Boy by the shoulder and together they made for the other end of the block. Soon the twelve-year-old would have to put together a good reason for being in the woods. But for now, Dad wouldn't read Mom's letter. That was all that mattered.

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 7 - “Dumb Blonde”

Monday morning finally came. The Boy held his head high standing as tall as possible stepping into the nearly empty entrance hall of his elementary school, floors radiating the white sunlight flooding in behind him. As the door swung loudly closed, the eyes of two younger girls fell on him and as he passed they covered their mouths and chortled at his gauche attempt to strut like Ushio-kun. Reddening up to his ears, he slumped again to his normal height and stride. His steps sped the length of the hall, turning the nearest corner and running up a flight of stairs leading to his class' lockers.

_"I can't believe Ushio-kun thought I could pull off a strut. If he's wrong about this, I'll never show my face here again!"_

Not only was he risking making a fool of himself if anyone found out, what if she herself was annoyed? What if Ushio-kun was wrong and someone did already ask her? What if she only said yes to save his feelings? Maybe she wouldn't be able to go to the dance at all. Besides, he only talked to her one time, why the heck would she go with him instead of one of the cooler, taller boys? Head hung thoughtfully he mumbled over and over Ushio-kun's advice: "Relax, be confident, stand tall, compliment her, smile, look her in the eye, and whatever you do don't ramble or stutter like you always do."

He reached the top step and scanned the walls. Ushio-kun and one of his friends leaned on their lockers, uniforms unbuttoned indolently as they animatedly mocked each other's report cards. Ryuuji-san and another girl stood in front of their own lockers at the end of the hall to his right. Mind racing, his nerves went numb when she spotted him out of the corner of her eye. Noticing the intensity of his stare, she awkwardly lifted a polite wave and small grin. He startled into action and took that as his cue.

"Ryuuji-san!" The Boy's uniform felt constricting and clammy as he tentatively approached. Drawing closer he locked a hasty glance with Ushio-kun who watched with first a look of astonishment, then an ear to ear smile.

"Good morning." Ryuuji-san turned to him as her friend headed off to their first class.

"Yeah! I, uh…" The Boy sweated bullets, hearing but unable to process the sounds of snickers and whispers coming from the boys behind him on the other wall. "I-I was just wondering if you…er, I mean… Your hair is really pretty today!" His neck and ears burned as he pinched his eyes shut in a cringe.

Ryuuji-san's mouth formed a small 'o' and she fingered her ponytail awkwardly. "Oh… thank you."

"Yeah, anyway!" The Boy swallowed hard and threw caution to the wind, ready to get it over with. "Are you going to the dance on Friday??"

She cocked her head to the side and wrinkled her brow. "The… what?"

Ushio-kun and the other boy burst out laughing.

"The dance… this Friday?" The Boy repeated. At the sound of his friend guffawing behind him, the dots started to connect.

Ryuuji-san looked from the other boy's to him with pitiable confusion. "What are they laughing at?" the girl muttered to him, scowling at Ushio-kun and the other.

If The Boy could have melted into the ground right then, he would have. His mouth went dry. His eyes fixed on her shoes, he took a deep breath as the laughter burned into his shattered ego. His brain kicked him senseless with the same words over and over.

_"Moron…Idiot…Stupid, stupid, stupid!" _

"So, um," Ryuuji-san's tone was quick and concerned by the despondence on The Boy's face. "I didn't know there was going to be a dance this Friday… who told you that?"

The Boy folded his lips, brows knitted. His back was to the laughing boys, and he wanted nothing more than to keep hiding his face. He blinked hard and gave a curt nod in their direction behind him.

"Ushio-kun?" Ryuuji-san peered to the culprit still whispering in his friend's ear who laughed all the harder. It was clear even the oblivious girl could see the elephant in the room. Still she shifted uncomfortably on her heels and asked politely, "You're friends with him right? Well, maybe we should go ask him more details about where he got that news from…?"

The Boy refused to lift his head. "No."

Ryuuji-san nodded. She fingered the hem of her skirt and The Boy chewed the inside of his lip angrily as an awkward silence drew on, filled with nothing but the hardly-suppressed giggling of the other boys.

"You were going to ask me to go with you, weren't you?" Ryuuji-san mumbled with a sad but encouraging smile.

The Boy refused to lift his head.

"Did Ushio-kun tell you to ask me?"

"…"

The girl's lips went tight in an awkward grin. "…I'm very flattered."

Her words were empathetic but he loathed the fact that she had to look at him like a retarded kicked puppy.

"If it makes you feel any better," she said, "You seem nice so I would have said yes if… if there_ was _a dance."

The Boy turned the brightest shade of red. The tingling in his chest could have just as easily been from sheer mortification as from nervous elation. Shortly after, the boys behind them finally quit laughing and Ushio-kun's friend left for class exactly as a bell on the wall chimed.

"Fifteen minutes until class starts." said Ryuuji-san to The Boy, "Do you want to head there now?"

"You go ahead." The Boy replied hardly audibly.

Still looking very sorry for him, she gave him a bow quickly turning on her heel and pacing away with textbooks clutched to her chest. It was only the two left in the hall now. The Boy finally peeled his eyes off the ground to glare holes into the back of his friend who gathered supplies from his locker, still chuckling. The Boy's expression turned like sour milk.

"Why did you set me up for that?!" He bellowed.

The other's shoulders hunched in another attempt to conceal a snigger. "Okay, okay! I know I'm an ass." Ushio-kun turned around with hands raised, "But ya gotta admit that was _funny_!"

"That was the most humiliating-! Most mortifying-!!" The Boy's muscles seized, his fist clenched and tongue clamped as if holding him back.

"Oh, quit overacting. How could you _not _know there wasn't actually a dance?"

"You don't get it!" The Boy stormed forward. "My dad would _not _have told me if there was one! I thought I was going to have to go behind his back just to get to hang out with my class."

Ushio-kun rolled his eyes but shied ever so slightly when The Boy charged in close to him.

"Alright, man, it was just a joke." The former said, "I seriously didn't think you were enough of a blonde to go through with it. But clearly…" he giggled, "I was mistaken."

"I can't believe I trusted you!" The Boy was well within his personal space glaring up at him with a fire in his blood hot enough to evaporate any regard for his disadvantage in size.

Ushio-kun pulled his backpack over his shoulders and finally buttoned up his uniform, avoiding his friend's burning glower. "Quit being so sensitive all the time, yeesh…"

"No…" Wheels turned in The Boy's head. "No, this wasn't just a joke, was it? You wouldn't go that far out of your way just for a laugh."

A defensive demon seized hold of the culprit. "Look." Ushio-kun slammed his locker shut. "I told you, I didn't mean for it to be a big deal, okay?? Chill out."

"But it _is _a big deal!" The smaller tween sidestepped into the path of his friend trying to escape. "I bail you out all the time. I've told lies for you, taken the blame and countless detentions to preserve your record… Without me you would have been expelled a long time ago! And what have you done for me, huh?"

"Well, maybe I don't like the idea of friendship being about debts!" Ushio-kun countered. "Unlike you some of us like to enjoy a joke now and then instead of being a miserable pity pot all the time!"

Being accused of looking for pity never failed to bring the fire lashing from The Boy. "Do you realize," he yelled, "Yesterday I was so worried about talking to her that I forgot to do my chores?? Do you know how much trouble I was in?!"

At that the other couldn't suppress a titter.

"You think it's funny??" The Boy cried. "Why is everything at my expense so funny to you??"

"Fine." Ushio-kun shifted his weight on one leg and pointedly drew a straight face in mock empathy. "Daddy gave you a spanking last night. Big deal. Can we go to class now?"

The Boy's teeth ground themselves, resisting the urge to pull up his shirt to show off his deeply bruised ribcage from the "little spanking."

"You're lying." The Boy went on. "This wasn't just a friendly joke. In fact I don't think you know the first thing about friendship!"

"Says the kid with literally no friends."

That sank like a glass knife to The Boy's heart. He bit his tongue until it nearly bled. The two held each other's glare for a beat. The Boy finally threw all filters away and announced the elephant in the room.

"You were jealous." He said lowly. "_You like_ Ryuuji-san."

Ushio-kun's mouth fell open with a dramatic gasp, feigning a pretentious and stunned expression. "Wow! You _do _have a brain inside that big head!"

The Boy scoffed, "You've known me for years. You _know_ I'm not here to steal anyone's dibs, or compete, or start fights. Then for _one day _Ryuuji-san is nice to me… and you couldn't _stand it_. You couldn't bearthe thought of her giving attention to anyone else, could you? All I wanted was a chance to make another friend! That was it! But no, you couldn't let me mind my own business. No, you felt _threatened _and just _had_ to mess it up! Now she thinks I'm the biggest idiot in town and knows that I like her too!!"_._"

Ushio-kun's proud stare was intact. "You know, for someone brainless enough to fall for a prank you're pretty good at reading people, I'll give you that."

The Boy laughed cynically. "Yeah, well for someone with so many friends you've sure got your head jammed pretty far up your ass."

"Cry me a river!" Ushio-kun lurched forward and flat-palm plunged at The Boy's chest, sending him backwards a few steps wheezing. "Why don't you be grateful that I ever talked to you at all? You know it never looked good on my rep to hang out with the emo kid."

The Boy coughed and grabbed his chest. "Right… because the few times you acted like my friend when you needed help with homework were totally done out of the goodness of your heart!"

He stiffened every muscle, throwing his hands directly at Ushio-kun's shoulders, returning the barge like a battering ram. The latter was taken by surprise, banging his backpack into the lockers and his knees giving way until he cowered smaller than The Boy. He gawked up at him, massaging his shoulders that must have been throbbing. If you were as pompous as him you wouldn't have expected such a forceful counterattack from the petite kid either. The Boy huffed and rubbed at his aching chest, trying not to bend and ignite the bruise on his abdomen already lighting up again. He shifted his side to Ushio-kun who promptly stood to his full height but keeping his back pressed to the wall making no move to provoke The Boy again. The latter took deep breaths to sooth the urge to punch him while he was vulnerable. No matter how angry The Boy was, he despised that look of fear and pain he just instilled in Ushio-kun, knowing it was the same look he gave up to Dad when he was pinned to the carpet last night.

The bell on the wall rang long and harsh. Class was starting.

"Fine." Ushio-kun pushed off the wall and marched toward the classroom, snapping over his shoulder, "If I'm really so mean then go cut yourself already and quit pretending like we're friends."

. . .

Unsurprisingly The Boy needed a good vent when he got home. Although his letter full of excitement for today was sent just yesterday, he couldn't bear his thoughts any longer. He wrote out of turn:

_"Dear Mom,_

_ I almost hope you didn't read yesterday's letter. It was dumb and I don't know why I got my hopes up. Of course Ushio-kun would be jealous and try to scare me off by making a fool of me about some dance that didn't even exist! And of course I would fall for it like an idiot! Ryuuji-san was nice to me but she must have thought I was a moron. She won't want to be seen with me ever again once Ushio-kun spreads this around the whole school. I just miss you so much, Mom. Big Sis, I miss when you and I were best friends. I can't seem to find anyone as trustworthy as you. I hope we go back to those days soon…"_

The despairing letter was sent. But his comforting response never came. Days passed. He checked the mail in the morning. Nothing. He went to school, ignored the taunts, and avoided Ryuuji-san when Ushio-kun was around – which was always – and checked the mail when he got home. Still nothing. He'd then go to sleep with his anxiety to wake up the next morning to repeat the whole thing. Days turned into weeks, and attempts to ignore the teasing became struggles not to cry in front of the whole class. Wondering whether Mom had received either letter turned to pondering every possible reason she might be ignoring him.

The next three months are blurred together in his memory, nothing but desperate letters with no replies and crumbling hopes of ever hearing from her again. These are just a few of the passages he tearfully composed and sent:

July 28

_"Dear Mom,_

_ It's been a while since you wrote to me; did you get my last letter? Sorry for sounding impatient, it's just that we normally write every couple of weeks. I was just writing to see if you got my last letters. I've had a lot going on at school lately and I just really want to talk to you. Anyway let me know when you get this. Love and miss you guys!"_

August 1

_"Dear Mom,_

_ It's been forever since you wrote to me. At first I thought my letters didn't get delivered but after all this time you would have written to ask what was keeping me. Maybe you're upset with me? Just please let me know what's going on. Sorry if I sound desperate, it's just unusual for you not to reply. Tell Big Sis I miss her." _

August 24

_"Dear Mom,_

_ You've never gone this long without writing me before. Just in case there was something I said that upset you, I want you to know I don't want to keep secrets from you. In fact I'll tell you right now, you should probably know that I'm writing you in secret. When you first wrote and asked Dad if you could have permission to talk to me, he never saw that letter. I never told him about it either. I knew he wouldn't let me, so I've been working hard not get caught. So please answer me. If you don't I'll have no way of knowing what happened. I should also confess that I haven't been the good kid you want me to be. I know you don't want to hear this, but if it lets you know how much I trust you and want you to trust me then I'll say it: I've been stealing. A lot. Dad makes me. We steal people's money all the time, but its' just normal for us. He said it's the only way we can keep paying the rent when he keeps losing jobs. I'm sorry to disappoint you. I love you."_

September 3

_"Dear Mom,_

_ I can't believe you haven't replied yet. This is really stressing me out. We've always sent each other a letter at least once a month for the past four years. If there is any way these letters haven't been received then can someone please say something? I'm afraid Dad has already found out somehow. He's been giving me an extra long silent treatment for the past few weeks but I don't know what I did to make him mad. He's drinking way more than usual today and he's really scaring me. Please answer me. I miss you guys._

_ P.S. I'm turning thirteen in a few months, remember? I'll be old enough to choose who I want to live with. You do still want me…don't you?"_

September 30

_"Dear Mom,_

_I'm worried something has happened to you. Please write me back."_

_To be continued..._


	9. Chapter 8 - “Lurk in the Dark”

_Tick...Tick...Tick..._

Silence. Total emptiness. Nearly but never bursting tension. The weight of endless unspoken thoughts cramming the mind. These were all The Boy had known the past months. He could probably count on one hand the amount of words his father had spoken to him this past week. They were surviving together under the same roof, but that was about it. The man seemed to have forgotten The Boy existed. The child couldn't remember having done anything to offend his father so deeply – hell, he couldn't remember anytime Dad ever gave a silent treatment this long. He tried for a long time to lie to himself, hoping his next letter would get a response. But he was smarter than to believe it forever.

_"I miss you."_

The words weighed on his heart sitting in his room one October evening. A few sorry drops rolled down his nose into his lap. He missed their words, their presence, their love... He missed being naïve enough to think this could have kept going on and that Dad would never find out. He missed not having nightmares of what torturous punishment his parent was planning in the silence. Most of all he missed knowing that Mom and Big Sis were somewhere safe without wondering if they had met some untimely end and that was the reason behind all this.

Honestly he didn't know which explanation to dread more. Mom and Big Sis's death could definitely be something to make Dad close up like this; maybe he didn't know how to tell The Boy the news. Maybe he never would. That would mean a death sentence to his beloved family along with his hopes of a better life he had clung to the past six years. But the alternative, that Dad had discovered his secret and was plotting vengeance, could be a death sentence period.

For now he could do nothing but wait and listen while the clock on the wall ticked away the moments of agonizing ignorance before the bomb would finally implode and the truth rear its ugly head.

_Tick...Tick..._

His numb wonderings were interrupted by Dad throwing open his bedroom door.

"We're going out." He said. "Maintenance duty. Cleaning up around the neighborhood."

The Boy wiped hisnose with his sleeve, "What? Since when...?"

"New job."

With that the forty-year-old father turned and left the room. The Boy gazed out the balcony doors at the lavender-gray sunset. It would be dark soon.

But there was no arguing, so The Boy pulled to his feet and moved to the door where hung his ripped rain jacket he had retrieved from the cellar a couple days after that storm. Next to it was his black coat vest which he grabbed and put over his long-sleeve – he avoided wearing the rain jacket as much as possible in hopes Dad wouldn't ask how it got ripped.

The Boy pulled on cheap pleather boots at the front door and his father donned his brown jacket. They each carried a trash bag. Neither said a word. The man stepped out first and locked the door behind them. Down the creaky steps and out the lobby the tween hurried after the long strides of his parent, still not speaking and making no attempt to explain their job. It was odd, The Boy thought. The past few weeks Dad was getting drunk around this time of night, but he couldn't smell any alcohol on him whose brisk step was direct and flawlessly sober.

Across the street and onto the sidewalk Dad lead with his son following at a distance. Passing the red post box on the other side of the rails, The Boy sadly noted it still didn't hold any new mail in their slot behind the glass. Further down the side-walk, along the cement wall was a brown paper bag and some other ripped tissues the stray dogs had probably dragged from the dumpster. When The Boy stooped to pick it up, however, Dad whistled sharply and ordered him to keep following.

"I thought we were picking up trash?" The Boy said.

"Not out here."

The Boy had to jog to catch up. The petite twelve-year-old eventually managed to come to the side of his father.

"Where are we going then?" he pleaded for a response.

But Dad's lips were set tight and locked.

They paced passed endless houses while the sky grew just dim enough for a few stars to appear behind the few and perfectly still clouds. The moon now shone over the last edges of the sunset on the horizon, vibrant and full. Normally The Boy didn't mind the dark half as much in open air like this where streetlamps divided the totality of dusk. But the sight of his father's broad back in the hazy light drew the stillness of the evening close and constricting. It was almost, but not quite, as unnerving as the darkness indoors – for of course nothing was more bloodcurdling than his nyctophobia fused with the claustrophobia of being walled in.

Finally Dad paused at the breach in the wall to the forest. He stepped a long leg over the rubble and pulled a tree branch away from his son's well-worn trail.

The Boy skidded to a stop and his heart imploded a little.

The letters.

"Wait, Dad!"

The man leaned back, "What?"

"Um..." The youth swallowed and fidgeted in place. "It's just... we don't need to clean up in the forest, do we?"

"Why not?" said Dad. "Don't you think this would be a convenient place to hide a load of trash that should have been disposed of a long time ago?"

"..."

"Don't you think??" Dad repeated just a bit louder.

The Boy stared back blankly, blinking hard and fighting to keep an expressionless face. "B-But... It's off limits."

Dad leaned on the side of the wall. Something in his cool mien changed, not stirring, but turning more chillingly relaxed than ever. "Yes, it is." The corners of his mouth lifted, "But that didn't stop you, did it?"

A churning bubble rose in the child's gut as Dad continued down the trail. He didn't need to tell his son to follow and he knew it.

The Boy took one, then another slow step into the forest towards his doom.

_"...So this is how I die..."_

Yet even with the pounding of his heart in his ears, his head was clear for the first time in a while. A very small part of him hoped this was checkmate; that the torturous ambiguity might finally be over. But with Dad, fear of the known and fear of the unknown are almost equivalents.

The crunching of leaves under Dad's heavy footfall was close ahead now; he didn't dare to close the gap any farther. His mind searched for a false hope, anything to keep his knees from buckling.

_"He doesn't know."_ He told himself. _"He doesn't know. He doesn't know."_

Silent as a ghost Dad stepped along while the frenzied flock of words swirled his son's mind.

_"He can't know."_

He squeezed the inhaler in his pocket. Icy blood thickening in his veins constricted his airways. The woods were so still; if Dad heard the shake and spray of the inhaler it would be an immediate declaration of his anxiety mounting as they drew closer to the letters. Finally he emerged at the open grove, trees black in the dense shade beneath the bluish gray dome of stars growing brighter and clouds dimmer. The shadowy form of his father stood stock-still, arms crossed and back to his son. He was staring at the door to the cellar at his feet, leaves brushed away and hatch opened already.

_"He knows."_

Time moved in slow motion as Dad shifted and turn to face him.

"Get them out."

The Boy's feet froze to the ground. He gulped breaths from his inhaler, if only to buy time. Dad rushed back slapped it out of his hands.

"Get. Them. Out."

Breeze whistles through the trees as the child wordlessly obeyed. He felt around for the shoebox and when he grasped it, sat back hugging it. Dad stood over the whimpering child still not initiating a word.

"...How?" The Boy asked, "How did you find them??"

The man dug in his jean pocket and held up the blue envelope of Mom's letter from back in June.

"I wasn't born yesterday." He said. "I know the difference between my son's crappy handwriting in this fake letter and that of my wife who addressed the envelope."

He tossed it into the pit in the ground. The Boy cringed at his blind optimism, watching the papers glide to the bottom of the cellar.

"I knew the letter was from her the second I saw the envelope, and that she sure as hell wouldn't have addressed me as 'my love.'" His monotone voice went on, with just the slightest hint of jealousy on those last words. "And if she'd only sent that one letter that one time you would have hidden it in your room when you took it, so the next day I searched but couldn't find anything. I figured this wasn't your first rodeo then and you must have had a distinguished hiding place. From there it wasn't exactly rocket science to connect the dots after I saw you rush out of this forest during the storm." Dad crouched before his son. "So next time you're trying to keep a secret hiding place, maybe try not leaving a bright red jacket sticking out of it like a flag."

Dad slowly reached for the box in his son's hands but The Boy gripped it tighter. The man's hand fell limp and the tween finally met his eyes when he heard the crack on his father's voice.

"I didn't want to believe it." The man said almost inaudibly. "I never thought you'd do this to me..."

The preteen bit his lip but the guilt seeping into his chest only burned his blood hotter. "What did I do wrong? What is so wrong about me wanting to talk to my family?? It's not like it was hurting you."

"Oh, wasn't it?" Dad said. "Let's take a look at some of the crap you were telling that woman..."

He pulled from inside his jacket a wad of letters. He didn't sift through them or break eye contact with The Boy. He just held up each one like he had the contents memorized.

"In this one, you tell her she's never gone this long without writing you before. That means you two write behind my back often. You also admit to her that you lied to us both when you started contacting her without my permission that she asked for. And what's more, you go on to talk about our financial need to steal as if it's some sin I've passed on to you. If it weren't for our collections you wouldn't have food in your stomach, and that kind of ungratefulness does very much hurt me."

He dropped this letter too into the dark pit. The Boy gaped as it glided down.

"Dad..."

"And in this one," the parent held up another page, "You claim my drinking scares you, painting me the clear villain... And to add insult to injury, you stress over and over how much you don't want to disappoint her, as if I'm the one leading you astray."

The man chucked the rest of the pages into the vault. On hands and knees The Boy watched his sad letters fall.

"It was you..." he mumbled numbly, "You stopped my letters from getting delivered!?"

"She's lucky at least she tried to ask my permission in the beginning," the father's eyes were solemn. "The only reason I let her off the hook with nothing more than a restraining order is because I knew she was also being lied to... for four years."

The man then reached and touched the side of The Boy's face. "Although I'm shocked by what you've done... You're just another victim of her lies. Of course she'd say she loves you, and of course you'd want to believe. But she's been manipulating your heart. Just like she did mine." The man's voice was tender and sorrowful. "I wish I could have protected you sooner–"

The Boy sucked his cheeks and spat into his father's face.

"You don't want to protect me! You don't care! If you cared you wouldn't have left me clueless for months!!" His tears flowed painfully. It hurt being this livid. "I hate you... I hate you so much!"

For a crawling minute there was no sound but the crickets. Finally Dad wiped the glob of slobber out of his eye, eyes igniting a deathly scalding color despite the cool moonlight

He muttered. "...You're biting the hand that feeds you, you know. Her promises are empty. She'll make you feel good and loved and then she'll leave you and take your heart with her."

The Boy grimaced as Dad's hold on his jaw tightened. Their faces inches apart, the teen's rage was doused. His father was fatally sick at heart; the wrath within was probably more painful to himself than any beating he could give his son.

Still holding the youth's face Dad stood tall and pulled him to his feet. "I didn't want to do this. But you have to be cleansed of her..."

As he spoke his eyes drifted to the pitch black hole in the ground. Terror knocked the breath from the twelve-year-old as the realization sunk in. The Boy clutched the box of letters and barged for the trail. His feet were pulled out underneath him and he face-planted into a mouthful of dirt and grass, the cardboard box jabbing his chest as it crushed under him. Wheezing against the dirt the child saw his inhaler Dad had slapped out of his hands and managed to snatch it just as strong hands yanked him off the letters. The Dad's hand disappeared for an instant inside the cardboard box. Then came the click of a lighter and the glow of a spark.

"No!!" The Boy lurched for the papers going up in flames but his father already had a fistful of his hair. His eyes were peeled away from Mom's wilting letter box as he twisted onto his back being dragged towards the pit. His scalp screaming, his arms swept the ground beside him, trying to catch a root in the grass to cling to.

"NO, no, no, no, no!!" The Boy sobbed as Dad's hands gripped his shoulders, then his waist. "Let me go!!"

He turned, he writhed, he curled up, he hugged his limbs; still the man lifted him over one shoulder carrying him back to the cellar. The Boy punched his father's back and kicked his gut; still he moved like untouched stone. He yowled for help and in an instant Dad's huge paw clamped his mouth, almost snapping his neck backwards. Finally the parent stopped and pulled the child off him. The latter screamed mutely against his father's hand still kicking, harder now. Dad didn't flinch.

Screw the hand that fed him.

The Boy opened his mouth and sank his teeth into the meat of Dad's palm. Still no reaction. He clamped his jaws tighter until the taste of iron coated his tongue. His feet dangled over the blackness as his father's other hand seized his throat. He clawed at the thick arms as his face went blue and tight like it was readying to pop. His mouth fell open, gasping for air and choking on Dad's bloody hand.

Holding his son dangling over the hole at arm's length, Dad stared back unfeeling, unhurt, untouched. The prematurely wrinkled brows pinched in the slightest of sad expressions.

"Forget her now while you still can."

Next thing The Boy knew he was falling. The gray dusk behind his father got farther away as the dark grew higher around him. The drop lasted forever until the smack of his tailbone on wet stone reverberated in the hole, a wave of pain searing up his wet back.

All around him the little sockets in the walls were tiny holes of darker black in an already black prison. Up at the world above he gazed, the stars in the dark sky looking bright by comparison.

"Wait...!!" The Boy wheezed, "Dad!!" Adrenaline came back to help him jump to his feet, reaching for his father's silhouette.

But the figure walked away from the hole. There was a heavy stomping sound in the earth surrounding him as the embers of burning paper and grass were put out. The Boy still searched the starry grey square of light above. "Dad!!!"

A wilted corpse of cardboard was thrown down to him, raining sultry ashes into his eyes.

The Boy wailed a piecing cry, rubbing his eyes frantically. When he looked up again through the blur the square of light was already gone.

"NOO!! No! Let me out!!!" He rushed forwards, the first thing he felt was a wet stone wall, colder than ice. "Don't leave me in here! Daaaddd!!!"

The floor was wet and slimy, as were the close walls; yet the darkness stretched endlessly. As blood pounded his veins, his head grew dizzy with the spinning terror. There were bats in here, the slime on the walls was blood and so was the rocky water at his feet. He screamed and the monsters screeched back in a never ending echo.

He spun around, pounding the walls with his fists only to feel his fingers disappear in the storage holes lining them. Crying in terror he shoved his hands into the puddle and grabbed as many rocks as he could. He threw them up, listened to them hit the wooden door, then fall back at him. One of them felt like it could have been his inhaler, but it was thrown up and lost again in the blackness before he realized it.

"Daaaaaad!!!" The Boy pressed his back to a wall and hard as he could, "Please, Dad!! Come baaacck!"

He yowled a sob like a child throwing a tantrum. The stench of dead things and mold roiled his stomach and shot bile up his throat. He started hyperventilating. Then something started crawling by his ear out of one of the holes in the wall.

He lurched forward running his hands through his hair, hysterically beating the spider webs off his shoulders. Gritting his teeth, he threw hands and feet into the wall-sockets and started climbing. Bats squealed in his ears as he made it to the roof. His fingers scratched at the door like a wild animal trying to escape. He threw a fist straight up, the wood jostling but ungiving. It was locked from the outside.

"Don't leave me!!!" Whether it was the stench or his heart palpitating feverishly, he couldn't breathe. "DAAAD!!! PLEASE!!"

Not until his hands were full of splinters, fingernails worn down to the nub, and knuckles split did his lungs finally fail and he slid down to the wet bottom.

"Help me!!" He shouted at his own echo, gagging. "I can't breathe..."

Coughing, his hands fumbled through the black water for his inhaler. "I- I can't breathe... Please help me... Dad..."

I don't know how long he stayed there gagging and wheezing, sobbing and cursing at the bottom of that hole before stars finally burst in front of his eyes and a peaceful black-out sleep took him. But he still had a whole night to go of waking up from itching bug bites, the cold wet of the puddle, and his own nightmares just to see that it wasn't a bad dream so he could repeat the whole thing over.

If you're thinking its immature for a preteen to be so deathly afraid of the dark, don't assume I've shown you all his torments. So, maybe the walls of the pit were not really covered in blood, and maybe there weren't actually bats eating his ears; but if your parent told you since you were six years old about monsters that punish naughty children in the dark, your brain would make up some realistic imaginations too.

If there's one thing to force a person into submission, it's fear. Yukiné's father knew this better than any.

...

_Creek..._

The Boy finally awoke once more, this time by the sound of the cellar door being opened and the blurry sight of Dad's face against a bright day reaching down to him where he lay curled at the bottom of the puddle. As consciousness sank in, a mad grin tickled the child's face.

"D-Dad?"

He sat up. His father really was there, staring down at him with a pained look. The teen jumped to his feet, hardly noticing the stickiness of dried vomit on his shirt, raising his arms to the morning sky and his father's face like a toddler asking to be held.

The father hesitated. "Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes! Yes, yes, sir!! Please..." The Boy stretched his arms standing on his toes but he couldn't reach the light without his father's help. He prayed in his heart for his forgiveness and outwardly with a manic look in his round eyes, darkly circled and slightly bulging with the intensity of his trauma.

"...Alright." Dad nodded. "I believe you. Come here, son."

Dad's strong arm lowered into the pit and The Boy latched on. The hand that once beat him, even that tiny closet at home, seemed the farthest things from scary now. Never before did The Boy cling so tightly to his father than now as he crawled up out of that hole. With no tears left to cry, he collapsed into his father. The man didn't hesitate to wrap the dry-sobbing child in arms, usually cold and hard but now warm by comparison. The man hushed and ran a big hand through the tussled blonde locks, gritty with dirt and moisture. The Boy hiccupped and gazed around his father's shoulder, relishing the sunlight touching the grove all around.

Dad's hug went stiff and tight, "Promise me you'll forget about her." He whispered firmly in his son's ear, "Promise me you'll stay here."

The Boy had no choice either way. "Y- Yesssir."

"Good boy." Dad's smile was audible on his voice. "I love you, son."

The child hiccupped and his sobs struck harder, hugging his father with all the strength he had left.

_To be continued..._


	10. Chapter 9 - “The Baker”

Months had gone by since the incident with the letters. But he wasn't out of the woods yet. If anything, this was the real year that set him up for his premature end.

. . .

The line in the lobby of the local museum of cultural influence dawdled painstakingly. The Boy flipped through the pages of the one dirty magazine he owned, frankly starting to get bored of it, and shuffling his feet as the queue inched forward. He had the booklet of course wrapped in a more publicly appropriate sleeve – not that he cared much at this point if anyone thought badly of him; he just didn't want it to get confiscated. Swinging his collection sack on his wrist impatiently, finally the security guard called him through the gates and he gave a couple coins for admission, sighing. That was two less coins he could have given his father

Stepping into the great hall of the museum he passed a young man staring at a painting with earphones in and wires winding down to a smart phone in his hand. There was a faint humming from the stranger's music blaring so loud.

_"How nice it would be to just plug in and tune out like that."_

Jealousy pinched the teen but now without any hope. There was no sense in wishing for things he could never afford. With Dad's new found love of gambling away his son's collections it didn't look likely The Boy would have a chance to save his own money ever again.

Still, the thought of wandering the museum listening to music and thinking of something other than his self-pity sounded nice. But that would be impossible to do today anyway. As you know, Dad liked to send The Boy with reminders to stay in line everywhere he went; today it was a gross black eye so swollen he could hardly see out of it. Even if both eyes were swollen shut and he had music blaring loud in his ears he'd still feel the stares.

Jostling his way through a school of kindergarteners lead by their teacher, he turned his thoughts away from their pointing and gawking at his eye and instead asked himself again what kind of notes he was trying to fill this notepad with.

_"Just find something to write about and get it over with. I only need a passing grade on Wednesday."_

A couple weeks after the incident with the letters, The Boy's ranking at the top of his class slipped through his fingers and Ria Ryuuji quickly took his place. His grades only continued to plummet from there. If he didn't get back up to a passing average with this assignment Dad would confiscate his skateboard, and The Boy wasn't about to let that happen.

This board was his only taste of freedom and he clung to it with all his might. It was the only comfort to the contemplations in the far back of his mind about ditching this waste of a town.

Walking the main hall of the small museum he read each sign in front of each exhibit room. This essay was for his humanities class, and he was supposed to write about how religious culture has affected the history of the local area, specifically how it influenced the early settlers.

_"What am I supposed to learn from this? That my ancestors carved all these statues and worshipped these gods? Why should I even care about stuff like that?"_

He came to a room titled "Shintoism Through the Years."

_"Besides, it's not like I have a reason to worship the gods. They've never done a thing for me… Not that I need anyone's help."_

Either way he figured this was as good a place as any to start. The room wasn't too full and was dimly lit in a cold lighting to accentuate the lights inside the glass cases holding ancient woodcarvings, statues, and hand-made ceramics. There was a wide, flat pillar in the center of the room with several TV screens all around its surface so that the observer could walk around the long room while listening to documentaries. Watching one of the screens where a man read out of an old leather-bound book, he scribbled some ideas for topics to write about.

Before the humdrum of whispered voices around became too stifling, one cheery voice popped out of the blur. Ryuuji-san stood behind him looking at a glass case of ancient tribal masks, beside her was her father, whom The Boy hardly recognized – he was in a normal winter coat, not his rich work suit as usual. Turning his back to them and burying his face in his notes, The Boy tuned in, watching over his shoulder – taking care she didn't notice him or his ugly welted eye – as the girl grasped her father's hand with a smile and they stepped to the next viewing case. Regardless what he told himself, a lonely heart craves relationship and human attention, even if it has to get that fix from a secondhand source:

The elder Ryuuji inquired about his daughter's grades in the esteemed but not unfriendly tone which their family was known for.

"They've stayed up pretty well, Papa." Said Ryuuji-san softly, "Except… humanities."

Her face was turned from The Boy but her voice sounded like she was frowning. The Boy couldn't remember seeing anything but a smile on her lips.

"Don't look like that, princess." said her father as he gently tugged her chin back up to a more flattering posture, "We'll find a way to get them back up to match the rest."

"Kinouma- sensei said I could retake the test but… I won't stay at the top of my class like this."

"Don't worry." Her father said more firmly. "Your mother and I have some money set aside; we'll get you a tutor. I know how hard it is to struggle with a new subject." The man chuckled with a notable gleam in his eye, "And I only want the best experience for my favorite daughter."

The youth giggled and reminded him she was his only daughter, to which he replied he had all the more reason to spend time and money on her.

After a pause the girl said solemnly, "I just…don't want to disappoint anyone."

"You never do." He smiled and bopped her nose with a finger. "You take after your old man too much for that."

Ryuuji-san laid her head on her father's arm and walked on with him like that, like she couldn't feel more comfortable anywhere else in the world.

_"...Must be nice to have a dad who..."_

The Boy wasn't sure how he wanted to finish that uncomfortable thought, so he threw it away entirely. No use wishing for things he could never have or even deserve.

After all, he'd already sabotaged the perfectly good motives of one parent working hard to try to convince the court to let them be together… If only stupid little eight-year-old him hadn't thought it was a good idea to write to her without asking Dad, that he could pull off that trick the rest of his life and not get caught. Before it was just his father that told her not to come around, but now thanks to The naïve Boy she had a strict new restraining order to deal with. Thanks to The naïve Boy she might keep working for years in vain. Or maybe she'd already given up by now. If she did he'd never know.

Still, bouncing the drawstring bag on his wrist, an idea popped into his brain thinking of what he had to work with in the parent he did have left. Normally the bag being half full as it was now meant he was done collecting. Dad would be satisfied when he got home but… sometimes he got in a better mood when The Boy brought home a bigger haul. What if the bag was really half empty? So, after an hour at the museum with envy for the Ryuujis still fresh in his core, The Boy prepared to do his father proud or die finding out if such a feat was possible.

Stealing, pick-pocketing, and doing everything in between all the way home, he found that thieving by choice instead of necessity was addicting. Greed took over, the thought of Dad praising him for going the extra mile fueling him to continue searching every nook and cranny of the suburban sect. When his avarice had just about filled his bag to the bursting point, he went for more still.

It was then he turned to fishing from a wishing well outside the front of the local private cemetery at the park. Of course it wasn't long before his luck finally ran out. The park ranger caught him and demanded to see how much stolen money he had taken from the private donations. He insisted he had only stolen a little and that the rest was his own money, but the policeman, finding over five thousand yen worth of just coins and an erotic magazine, wasn't exactly impressed. Confiscating the lot, he warned The Boy how lucky he was to be a minor and told him to get home before he got himself into deeper trouble.

Without anything else to hold money, The Boy had no choice but to flee the park and head home before dark. Furious and terrified to face Dad without any money at all, he muttered every curse word he ever learned to keep himself from punching or breaking the nearest thing he could get his hands on. In this case it was the precious piece of trash he called a skateboard.

Kicking the board onward and faster he wound through the side streets, gliding full speed around people and in between cars, until finally he came to the back alleys behind his neighborhood's fence-line. In his head were memorized elaborate maps of the area; and in his frenzy of anger he thought only of getting home to get his beating over with as soon as possible. His mental GPS told him the fastest route was through this alleyway coming up on his left. So he turned sharply, not thinking twice about where he was.

The evening sun casted a heavy shadow on this narrow passage so he rode into almost darkness. He had forgotten this was the street where – for some reason still unknown– the construction workers seemed to have run out of concrete and started using rough red bricks as pavement. Unable to see the ground in the shade he was startled by the jarring shift under his wheels, slowing his speed. Blood still boiling in shame for his own stupidity he glared ahead to the sidewalk and the cement wall beyond this alley. Kicking forward way too hard he ignored the dark shapes flying past him which he would soon recognize as spilt sacks of trash.

In an instant his wheels caught something and he was sent lunging forward into a full face-plant. The edge of his board flipped and boxed his anklebone. Landing partly on his wrists and partly on his nose, dirt slowly burned his grated skin as he rose on hands and knees, growling.

And now he did the only thing you can imagine he wanted to: yell and kick things. He didn't know what he was beating, just that watching the trash fly all over the place was a release of the heat. It wasn't such a bad deal until he hurled a kick at a metal garbage can sending it rolling to the wall on the other side of the sunlit sidewalk, nearly breaking his toe in the process. He grabbed his throbbing foot, biting his tongue and falling back on his tailbone.

"Excuse me!" a small voice piped in through the vulgarity rampaging his head.

To his right, atop the steps that lead up to the store front of that niche bakery was the elderly baker herself. The Boy felt a fraction of his temper give way to embarrassment. He, like most people, had forgotten this little bakery was back here. But the little woodcarven sign above the door reading Heavenlee wasn't exactly the most memorable thing you'd ever seen, hardly even readable in the shade.

Her silver hair was tied in two tiny buns perfectly placed on either side of her head. She wiped one hand fretfully on her dirty apron while grave concern wrinkled her pruned face. They held each other's shocked gazes until eventually the mortification started to further curdle his sour temper.

He tried to stand and found the old woman's hand before him. He refused to take it. No way she could help him up, she was even smaller than him.

"Are you hurt?" she asked.

Embarrassed, angry, foot throbbing, and hoping she didn't hear any of his screaming, he shook his head.

"I thought I heard some commotion out here, at first I thought it was just the stray rummaging the trash again." She fretted. "What are you doing back here?"

"Nothing. I just tripped." The Boy retorted, turning away sharply but stumbling on his own limp.

"Ah! Look at yourself." The lady dismayed, pulling him back around and brushing the dust off his chest and shoulders. "Don't worry, I'm sure all of this will wash out of your coat."

He tensed at her touch and pulled away. "I-I'm fine. Leave me alone." he tried to push her compassionate hands away.

"Oh…" she frowned. "What's this??"

He flinched when the stranger reached for his face, examining the shiner on his eye. He spooked but stopped short of his recoil as her wrinkly fingers brushed away his bangs gently. Her deeply creased eyes peered through her heavy lids at the massive bruise. They were a warm peach color.

"Are you sure you only fell down just now?" she said sweetly, but skeptical. "I've never seen a bruise form that fast."

The Boy cleared his throat. "I said I'm fine."

To his surprise she swiftly reached at his feet and picked up his board before he could snatch it from her.

"Hey!" he snapped, "Give that to me!"

"Follow me." She made her way up the step at the front door. "I've got something that'll fix you right up."

"I don't need your help!"

He tried to reach for his board but tripped as pain seared his foot still. Grudgingly he limped up the steps and through the glass door after her.

Inside, she flipped a switch and the lights in the front of the shop flickered on. She must have been closed, for if they had been turned on before, the yellow light would have shone through the windows and lit his path outside.

She set his board against one of the two stools at the small bar attached to the display glass and cash register. The lady then moved to the mahogany wardrobe she seemed to be using as a closet and started fishing around for something. The Boy looked around. Her shop didn't look much different from the museum he just got out of. A collection of ancient looking paper fans were hung on one wall, where charcoal drawings of gods in luxurious raiment on large parchments hung elsewhere. Scrolls of traditional brush calligraphy were just another of the many decorations on the busy pistachio wallpaper with black and pink cherry blossom patterns. The back wall was gabled with dark wood in the Oriental style and the kitchen concealed only by a rice paper door.

As she searched head buried in the wardrobe mumbling to herself he snatched his board protectively. But, the old furnace in the corner kept it toasty in here and the air smelled like fresh cinnamon rolls. Curiosity stoked and no longer too eager to get home where Dad refused to "waste" money on heating and it always reeked of alcohol, he took a meander around the shop.

Looking at the pastries in the display under the counter, he was reminded of that day when he was eight. Watanabe-sensei had given him some spare change and then this same baker blessed him with a free lemon meringue pie. Was this old lady always so bent on doing favors for sorry looking boys like him?

Behind the bar were shelves full of paper dolls and all kinds of books, from cookbooks to Shinto encyclopedias. On the counter sat… a charity donation box! He had forgotten from the few times he had come in here before, that she always kept some sort of change box on the counter in case people wanted to give their change to charity causes. He took one glance at the lady behind him, still with her back turned to him and searching in the closet. In a heartbeat he had nabbed the box and shoved it in his coat pocket, which luckily was deep enough and the box small enough the bulge was hardly noticeable.

Better to go home with less than the quota than nothing at all; maybe he wouldn't be beaten quite as hard.

"Ah ha! There we are!" said the lady finally, drawing out a jar of pale cream and striding back to him. "Tonight after your bath, rub a little of this on your bruises and scrapes. By morning it'll be gone as a ghost!"

"Um…" he said slowly, "I don't have any money."

"This one's on the house." And she gave him a small wink, putting the jar in his hands and pushing him towards the door. "You can take it but promise you'll bring it back in the morning and tell me how it worked. It's a new formula and I'm dying to see how it works. You don't have a peanut allergy do you?"

"Uh… I don't think so."

"Good. Then see you tomorrow!"

"W-Wait a minute!"

But the door was already shut and she flipped the sign to 'closed' from the inside, picking up a broom and finishing her cleaning like he was never there. So, very hesitantly and staring at the mason jar in his hand he started walking home, feeling like he just got tossed in and out of a whirlwind back into the cold.

At home his evening proceeded as painfully as expected. Then he bathed, used the ointment – not second guessing a medication from a stranger because even if it were poisoned he wouldn't really care at this point – and went to bed. The next morning after one glance in the mirror, he sprinted out the door early for school. He sped straight back to the alleyway on the edge of his neighborhood on his board, this time remembering to pick it up and only running the rest of the way on the bricks.

When he barged through the doors of Heavenlee, the belle jingled cheerfully and he found the elder alone behind the counter setting out new pastries. Puffing and not sure where to start, he pulled the jar of ointment from his backpack and handed it to her.

"It… worked." He panted, still amazed at how perfectly he could see her out of his eye that yesterday was nearly swollen shut.

Beaming with pride, she stepped closer and put a hand on his face, pulling it this way and that, inspecting the bruises that were almost invisible, just as she had promised. His cynical heart was swelling with excitement for the first time in what felt like ages. The ointment had worked its magic; even the newest wounds from last night were fading before they'd gotten the chance to show.

She grinned wrinkles deeper into her cheeks. "You're welcome."

"How much do you charge for a jar of this stuff???" he demanded in one breath.

"Charge?" she said, "Oh, I don't know. It's a family recipe; I've never sold it."

"Please, Ma'am, I really need to know." The Boy begged. "I'll pay for it. Name your price."

The elder pouted. "If you're really worried about the one on your eye showing then you go ahead and keep this jar until it's completely healed."

"No," he muttered, sadly eyeing the fact that the jar was already half-empty. "I mean… I might need some more like… for in the future… when this one's empty."

The old woman lifted her chin and hummed thoughtfully. "An easy bruiser, huh?"

He shrugged.

She nodded knowingly. "Get teased for it at school?"

He scowled at his feet.

"You'd like to stop giving them something to stare at, is that it?" she continued, very matter-of-factly.

The Boy grumbled, "I said I'd pay you whatever you want for it. It's none of your business why I need it."

The old lady thought for a moment. She turned her head and looked at the clock, flipping out her paper fan and waving it slightly under her many chins. "I'll tell you what:" she said, "You go run along to school. When you're done, come by and see me."

The Boy's heart sank. After last night, he would have to stay out thieving for hours to make up the loss.

"I can't." He groaned, still looking everywhere but at her face. "I have chores after school. I won't have time."

"Trust me." She continued in a shrewd tone. "I can solve your problem way easier than those chores could."

"Who says I have a problem? I'm just trying to buy something."He retorted, aggravated by her inability to give him a straight answer.

The woman raised her brows and folded her thin lips in a sad grin. "Sweetheart, anyone who is desperate enough to steal a charity collection from an old lady's bakery has problems… whether they admit it or not."

A dumbfounded stare was all The Boy could offer in reply. She laughed at his comical expression and he turned color a little. He pulled on his collar nervously but she just kept laughing.

He glowered at her giggling old face, "Are…Aren't you mad?"

"Of course I'm not mad." She said. "I knew you took it before I even let you leave."

"…So, you just…let me have it?"

"Let's just say I know a needy cause when I see one."

Her smile was full of such utter kindness it disgusted him.

"Who says I'm needy?" He mumbled. "For all you know I could just be a punk kid that doesn't care about anyone else."

Here the lady paused carefully. "From my experience with boys like you… I've learned that punk kids who don't care are usually the byproducts of punk parents who care even less."

The Boy's puckered brow slipped loose.

She sighed sadly. "When you look at it that way, it's not hard to forgive a child for being mislead."

The Boy opened his mouth without being sure what he wanted to come out of it. Should he deny her terrifyingly accurate assumption or thank her for being the first person to ever make it.

"However…" Her fan snapped shut and smacked him over the head.

"Ow!!!" he threw his arms up as a shield. "What the hell-!!"

"…There is no justification for thievery." She finished, smiling as gently as ever.

The Boy bit back quite a string of curse words bubbling in his throat, feeling a welt begin to smart on the top of his head. "Well, now you have to give me ointment for this welt I'm going to have!"

"Ah, don't worry about that." She just kept waving her fan, "I'll let you use all the cream you want. But we're going to be getting some proper tough love from now on, so just promise to stay on your best behavior and we shouldn't have any problems."

He kept rubbing at his head, "What do you mean, 'we'?"

"I'm hiring you." She said plainly, making her way back to her work behind the counter.

The Boy blinked a few times. "…Ma'am, are you senile?"

"No." she replied casually. "But my arthritis is getting worse by the day and it would be splendid to have a nice young pair of hands to help out around here, not to mention I love the company. Seeing as you need ointment – which I would be happy to provide in return – I think it sounds like a win-win for us both."

The Boy gazed around the shop. "Okay… so you need a younger worker around here. I get that, but… me? Really?? Of all the strong young men you could hire… Maybe you can't tell but I'm not exactly what most people consider 'able-bodied.' And I'm thirteen, you can't legally hire me! You're kidding, right?"

"You're a thorough thinker – I like that." She nodded and sat on a stool behind the bar. "Truth be told, I'm a bit of a spiritual person. I believe in the red string of fate that brings together the two souls who can aid each other like no other pair could. When I found you in the alley yesterday, I swear I'd never felt a stronger spiritual presence!"

At this, the teen tried very hard not to laugh. He halfway thought of walking out right then and ignoring this crazy old coot.

"This bakery," the elder went on more seriously. "Is not just my career; it's my passion. It's all I have and I want to avoid retirement as long as possible. But my body can't maintain a whole shop like it used to."

"Put up a 'now hiring' sign." said The Boy. "You could get stronger workers than me and more of them."

The old lady shook her head violently. "No, employees come and go like fads. That's not what I want at all. What I need is an apprentice." She pointed at him with her fan. "I was just waiting for the right little soul to show up."

"…Right…" and The Boy paced forward, set the jar on the counter then slowly backed towards the door. "Well, good luck with that. But, um… on second thought, I really don't need the ointment that badly."

"A thousand yen."

He froze. "What?"

"I'm guessing you steal because your parents don't give you much of an allowance." said the woman in a business-like tone. "In return for being my apprentice, I'll let you use the magic cream whenever you need it and I'll pay you a thousand yen an hour for your troubles, since you'll be working after school."

"A thousand yen?!" the teen gaped. "There's no way in a location like this you make enough to pay me that weekly let alone hourly!"

"You'd be surprised how much business I get. There may not be a lot of people who know about this shop, but those who do are faithfully returning customers." She smirked. "Besides, it's not like I have much to do with the money I make. I live in the back room here so I'm only paying utilities and groceries for one building. And I promise, I'll make it my personal responsibility to make sure you get paid every day."

The Boy's brain was in frenzy. Dad would never let him. He'd actually asked his dad about finding some work around the neighborhood but the man always refused, saying he has to handle the responsibility of school before he can shoulder any others. But… If he worked every day after school for two to three hours, that would more than fulfill Dad's minimum quota. In fact, working for two hours every day after school would fill his bag faster than fishing out of wells anyway.

The Boy chewed the inside of his lip. "What about weekends?"

"On Saturday and Sunday I'm only open from eight to twelve. But there will be plenty of work to do around here even without customers, so working weekends is entirely up to how long you want to stay. I'll still pay you for every hour, even if you want to work all day." And she finished with a grin that let him know she would very much like that.

As it was now, he would sometimes stay out until dark without getting enough to appease Dad. Even if it turned out to be harder work, how nice would it be to know that he wouldn't go home empty-handed?

The Boy felt hope trying to light his heart. He squashed it down a little longer. "You still haven't answered my question though." He said. "I'm not at the legal hiring age yet."

"Don't worry." She assured with the biggest beam yet. "If anyone asks I'll pretend like you're my grandson."

The Boy's skin cringed at her joy.

"In fact." She went on, "I won't even tell you my name. You can call me Granny. I've always wanted a grandkid and no one would suspect a thing!"

"I'm not calling you Granny."

The old woman giggled at his sour attitude. "Well, then you'll just have to call me nothing at all."

He scoffed. Her name wasn't important right now as far as he was concerned. What was important was this deal.

"What if I can't work some days?" he asked.

"I would understand." She said. "But I'd appreciate if you prioritized our deal as much as possible."

Dad would get suspicious if he was gone during regular hours every day and started bringing home a regular amount every time. But he wouldn't have to give his father all the money every time. And working extra hours on weekends could give The Boy deep enough pockets to create irregular collections to offer his father and avoid suspicion altogether.

The Boy finally met the old woman's smiling gaze. The only really questionable factor here was her sanity. Who knew what lay behind those wrinkled grinning eyes. Maybe she was senile.

Or maybe she was just another lonely soul.

Or maybe this was a trap. It all sounded too good to be true. Besides, last time he thought he was safe to go behind Dad's back he ended up at the bottom of a cellar choking half to death.

The baker finally stood again. "This is a lot to think about, I know. I'll give you some time to think about it. You've got to get to school."

He craned his neck to the grandfather clock. His heart skipped. He had five minutes to get to school.

The old lady gave him a final wink. "Think about it, okay? When you come to the conclusion it's a win-win for us both, come on by. Let me take care of those 'chores' for you."

To be continued...


	11. Chapter 10 - “Ice Breaking”

A couple songbirds hopped through the branches of a crate myrtle tree outside the window to his right, just starting to bud at this untimely February spring. While the mathematics teacher called Ryuuji-san to stand and solve the equation on the blackboard, The Boy's eyes followed her.

"Ow!" The Boy rubbed his temple and picked up the paper airplane that had hit him. Unfolding it, he read "LOSER!" scrawled messily over it. He sent a glare at Ushio-kun in the desk beside him.

The latter teen leaned and tugged The Boy towards him. "Head out of the clouds, lover-boy. You don't want _another _detention do you?" The red-haired boy whispered teasingly . "And you should probably know there's rumors going around they're thinking about bringing back corporal punishment here. I say they should - a bruised ass would go great with that shiner on your cheek."

The Boy sat straight back, fuming and turning his face so Ushio-kun couldn't see the black and purple wedding-band welt. The last bit in that jar of ointment the baker gave him he used up yesterday morning. After three weeks free of teasing for his bruises, the feeling of sticking out like a sore thumb was infinitely more infuriating now that he'd tasted normality.

The other boy snickered and whispered louder. "Come on, man, the chicks would dig it! Especially Ria-chan… she'd think it was a real turn on-"

"Shut up!" The Boy crinkled the paper and chucked it at Ushio-kun's face before he could think to stop himself.

"Young man!" Nishioka-sensei shrieked at The Boy, seeing only his outburst and not Ushio-kun's aggravation. "One more peep from you and you're in detention for twice as long this time. Pay attention!"

Ushio-kun stifled his guffaws and finally let off. As the woman continued her lesson The Boy slumped back, wishing he could melt into his chair and disappear.

_"Not much longer." _Glancing at his wristwatch, _"Eight more minutes. Then it's back to collecting…"_

In January he almost wanted to hope he could make a new start this year. But so far this year wasn't exactly giving him high hopes going into middle school in two months. His mind constantly went back to the day he met the baker, utterly unsure if he made the right choice, if he should have gone back to the bakery after school that day. Mom definitely would have loved to see him earn his money honestly like that. He felt a lot like he did when he had refused Watanabe-sensei's help. But what did it matter now? Whether he could have trusted her or not, that weird old coot and all her solutions were long gone now; just like Watanabe-sensei.

When the bell finally rang a stampede of children hurried out the entrance doors, spilling into the cool crystal sunshine. Some of them immediately grabbed their bikes and rode home or hopped into their parents' waiting vehicles; but most sprinted to the corner of the crosswalk. Jostled to the back of the mob, The Boy stood on his toes to see what they were all running to. When the bulk of the mass was down the steps, he lingered at the door peering after them. There on the lawn was a little baked goods cart parked under a big umbrella. Behind it was the tiny old lady taking things out of a cooler. His gut went tight, like it held a couple ends of the same magnet to revolt each other.

_"It's fine, she's senile. She won't remember me."_

He stood motionless in the flow of traffic for a little too long.

"Move it, midget!"

Shoma Ushio and another bigger-than-The-Boy classmate raced down the steps shoving him into the metal railing. To his dismay but not surprise, the aged metal bars crumbled like tin foil under his light frame. He didn't get even a second to cuss before he found himself face first in the weeds and bushes that crawled up the side of the building. He tried to jump up before anyone saw but the thorny shrubs had already swallowed him. Snickers arose all around. Of course. Of course he had to take a fall just as the entire school was walking by.

Wincing he waded towards the concrete slab again, snapping branches and twigs in the process. Thorns and twigs stuck him in all the wrong places as he emerged on hands and knees at the foot of the concrete steps after wrestling the remaining metal spikes.

Groups of kids walked out to the scene, all chuckling at him but skipping on towards the sweet smelling pastries. The only ones to stop and acknowledge him were Ria Ryuuji and her friend Nagisa Yamito, the latter of which was snickering and taking a picture of him sprawled at their feet. A forced giggle played on Ryuuji-san's lips but it was more to good-naturedly humor her friends than actual delight at The Boy's expense. He locked eyes with her and wanted to vomit in mortification when she held out a hand to help him up. Jumping to his feet he snatched his skateboard where it had been kicked aside at the student bike lot and sped towards the road without a backwards glance.

Riding along he kept his head hung as he passed the back of the line to the baker's stand. Even if the old lady did recognize him, he wanted nothing to do with her or Ushio-kun or Ryuuji-san or anyone on this campus. He wanted to go home, lock himself in his room, and dwell over what an imbecile he made of himself in front of the same stupid pretty girl that couldn't stop giving him reasons to like her.

He didn't realized his name being called until the whole mob was silent and staring at him.

Throwing on his brakes, he froze. The old lady was waving him over. Not knowing and honestly not caring how she knew his name, he met the old lady's gaze. Looking from her to the crowd of kids watching him and whispering to each other, he glared at her again shaking his head stiffly. He was tired of sticking out like a sore thumb.

The lady just called his name again. "Come here, sweetheart! You're not going to leave an old lady to handle this hungry mob by herself, are you?"

The kids watched him in deathly silence.

Aggravated and already mortifed, he tugged away some thorns still buried in his collar and groin, pushing his way to the front of the line. All eyes on him. Many students grumbled, angrily questioning why he got to skip in line.

Rounding the counter and feeling the glare of his peers hating to be kept waiting, he stepped close to the baker preparing dishes to set out.

"What the hell do you want with me??" he whispered tersely.

"I want you to be my apprentice."

"Find someone else!" he fought to keep his voice low. "I've been teased all day long, people are pointing out my bruises again, and I'm not about to stand here in front of my whole class so they can tease me about hanging around an old prune-face too!"

The woman turned her back to the crowd so they couldn't see her or The Boy's faces. She took his hands in her wrinkled ones, her smile totally immune to his insults.

"Let me give you a piece of advice it took me way too long to pick up on:" she whispered seriously. "Sometimes the things we need the most are the same things we are most terrified of going after. Whether we pursue our needs or stay still affects every day of our lives."

The Boy's scowl softened a bit only to allow a flicker of confusion.

"I believe whole-heartedly that you are the one meant to be my apprentice, whether you accept my spirituality or not." She continued. "Keep rejecting me all you want. But I'll always need an apprentice. And if you let me, I'll always be here to let you know _your_ needs don't have to be so far out of reach either."

The Boy avoided her warm eyes and snatched his hands away. "I'm not some helpless weakling, you know."

Then the old woman gave him a look so nurturing he thought for a second he was talking to his mother again.

"No." she said softly, grabbing an apron off the counter and putting it in his hands, "If you were, they wouldn't be trying so hard to break you."

At those words, the first person that came to mind wasn't Ushio-kun or any of the bullies in his class. With his father's face vivid in his brain, The Boy fingered the apron thoughtfully.

"Ma'am?" he mumbled almost inaudibly. "Did you bring all this out here just to see me because I didn't come back to the shop?"

She nodded, like it was no trouble at all. He chewed the inside of his lip, still avoiding her eyes. While she waited for his answer she picked a leftover leaf from his shaggy hair. Then another and another. She laughed and next thing he knew she was licking her fingers and trying to smooth down his ever-ruffled crop. The Boy heard impatient grumbles from the other side of the cart.

"Okay, quit it!" He jerked his head away from her fingers. "Please…" he begged her to stop embarrassing him, not meaning to sound as desperate as he did.

She followed his erratic glances at the mass of students on the other side of the counter and then sighed. "I understand you don't like being center of attention." She whispered, "But give me one chance today and we'll fix that for you. Okay?"

"…"

"Okay??"

The Boy rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

_"Only 'cause she went out of her way…"_

The elder chirruped happily and turned to continue unwrapping pastries. Finally she told the kids to form a line and Ushio-kun stepped up first – he'd made sure to push his way to the front of the crowd. The baker took one look at him before leaning close to The Boy's ear.

"I saw you take a dive back there." She said. "Isn't this the kid that pushed you?"

The Boy shrugged and pretended to be focused on tying the apron behind his back. By the time he had it on she had taken Ushio-kun's order and went to package his cakes. The Boy took her cue and stepped up to receive the payment, to which the other scoffed and turned up his nose as he handed it over. Putting the bills into the old lady's zipper pouch at his elbow, he hung his head as Ushio-kun opened his mouth loud enough for all the line to hear.

"So, you're mooching off an old lady now?" he smirked. "You know it's illegal for minors to work, right?"

"Yes, it is." The baker piped up, nudging The Boy out of the way with her hip and tossing the bag of pastries into Ushio-kun's hands. "But it's not illegal if it's between family." She drew The Boy close to her in a side hug. "He's my grandson!"

"I'm not." he grumbled through his teeth.

"And my grandson is one of the hardest workers I've ever met!" she boasted loudly. "I bet none of you guppies are even close to having your first jobs yet, huh?"

She shot The Boy a wink and some of the stress accompanying being face-to-face with Ushio-kun melted. Was she… _bragging _on him?

"So I'd be careful how you treat my grandson if I were you." she said to Ushio-kun, drawing the swarm's attention to him, "Unless you _like_ your donuts glazed with saliva."

A snorting laugh cracked The Boy's lips and shocked him. He instinctively stifled his amusement but the crowd was bursting with guffaws. Ushio-kun's face turned sour for one shocked moment before taking on a deep red almost as bright as his hair. The more they chuckled the redder he got. For a split second The Boy swore this old baker was an angel in disguise.

Together they kept taking orders and slowly the crowd shrunk. As promised, the baker certainly made sure he was center of attention in a way he'd never known before. A few kids he had seen but never met wanted to chat, eager know what it was like to have your first job at thirteen and how much he got paid. The Boy became both pleasantly and uncomfortably flustered, unable to muster a reply more than "I don't know" and "I guess it's pretty cool."

One of the younger classmen came up and expressed his jealously for The Boy. "You're so lucky…"

The Boy almost laughed out loud at the thought of someone being jealous of him, until he realized the younger boy was being serious.

"I would _so _love to have a job like this! I could save up for so many video games!" and he turned to the old lady. "Ma'am, please employ me too!"

"Sorry, hun." The lady rejected without a moment's hesitation. "I can only have one apprentice to take my place when I'm gone. When the shop is his, he can decide if he wants to hire new people."

The younger whined but the old woman only politely repeated her rejection. Her affinity for The Boy was exclusive; he didn't know if that should scare or flatter him.

As the line thinned and a few more children asked – sometimes skeptically, sometimes intrigued – about The Boy's internship with his "grandmother," to which her reasons and story of how he earned such a deal kept changing. Sometimes it was because he was an ambitious hard-worker. Other times he was the sweetest, most enjoyable company she could wish for. She even went as far as to claim he was the most talented young cook she'd ever met. Every word of it was a blatant lie, yet she knew what she was doing. Though he scoffed at her far-fetched stories, his starving ego couldn't deny the satisfaction, so much so that he hardly thought about the fact that for the first time ever he was being handed money, putting it into a register instead of taking it out.

When his peers were finally done and gone, he knew his fifteen minutes of fame were over. As he helped her pack the leftovers, her peaceful humming made the silence between them stiffer.

"Ma'am?" he finally spoke.

"I told you to call me Granny."

"You're not my granny." He snapped. "Anyway, I was wondering…you know how you forgave me stealing from you because you said I was just like… badly influenced or something?"

"I said I didn't believe you were half as much of a punk as you thought you were, yes."

"Right, well, I mean… everyone knows that Ushio-kun – the guy that pushed me – is a punk. He's done stuff way worse than me; he just doesn't get in trouble for it. I guess I was just thinking…"

"You were thinking…?"

"It's not important." He said nonchalantly. "It just seems like… like you're favoring me as if I'm special."

"I didn't treat his bad behavior any different than I did yours." she said casually, "If you remember, I swatted you on the head with my fan."

"I do remember." He replied bitterly.

After a pause the lady continued. "So what you're really asking is why I chose you over a kid like him."

"I guess." He mumbled. Their backs were turned to each other as they worked.

"Like I said;" she replied. "I felt a strong calling to you. That's all there is to it."

"Oh."

"But, from your perspective you do have a point." She said. "I _could _have opened my doors to Ushio-kun just as easily. But here's the big difference between you and him: children who behave badly are not _controlled_ by their misguidance. You're still responsible for making your own decisions and mistakes. The difference between good and bad kids doesn't lie in their actions. It lies between complacency and the desire to do better."

The Boy's hands went still folding some extra brown paper bags. "But I was a stranger. What made you think I wanted to be a good kid? Hell, you still don't know me well enough to say that."

"Don't I?"

"No." he affirmed. "You don't know me at all."

The lady moved to his side and put away some plastic silver-wear. "Then let's just say I'm good at reading people."

He scowled, "So you want to invest your life's work into an apprentice who you _feel like _is _probably _not going to cheat you out of your money?"

"Yup."

"…Ma'am, I think you lied to me."

She looked hurt. "When??"

"When you told me you weren't senile."

Her wrinkled face shriveled up as she erupted into a guttural fit of giggles. "Touché."

Commenting on the full register pouch, he asked why she wouldn't consider moving locations, since a back alley isn't exactly the best place for advertising. She didn't seem eager to get into the details of why she stayed in such a poor location. She only said she liked her little shop plenty well enough and pointed out what a conveniently short walk away it was from his apartment, fantasizing that meant it was fate that they were brought together after all. He was starting to figure out there were some questions – such as what her name was – that she would just never give a straight answer for, and he was already getting too tired of trying to figure them out.

"Wait," he scowled, "How do you know my apartment is close to your shop?"

"I know everyone in this town… _despite _your daddy's efforts to isolate himself." She added with a wink.

The Boy pretended that wasn't a terrifying notion and offered to push the cart back to the shop for her, which she accepted gleefully and graciously.

"I'll have to be sure to throw in a new jar of ointment with your salary today." She said, waddling beside him down the sidewalk.

"My salary?" he asked. "But, it hasn't been an hour yet has it?"

"No. But by the time you help me put everything away and clean up the shop it will be."

"I never said I'd help any further than pushing the cart."

"No. But you will."

"Says who?"

"I have a hunch."

For a beat there was nothing but the sound of traffic and the thin wheels of the cart rattling down the pavement.

"So… what if I come in tomorrow to work?" he muttered.

"You'll get paid." She replied.

"Even if we don't make a lot of money that day?"

"You'll get paid." She said firmly.

"And I don't have to work every day?"

"Like I said, not if it's terribly inconvenient."

Reading his mind, the lady continued very simply after a pause, "If it's someone not allowing you to work for me that you're worried about, then I promise I can be good at keeping secrets."

The Boy gave a curt and solemn nod.

"…Thanks."

_"To be continued..."_


	12. Chapter 11 - “Heavenlee”

A few months later...

As soon as his key was out of the lock and the front door of Heavenlee cracked open the smell of fresh bread and hot sugar drew him in. In her rocking chair by the window sat the baker with her favorite hand-painted fan in her lap, her chin buried in her collarbone as she snored gently. Kicking his shoes off and gingerly locking the door, something pounced at his ankles and he cried in shock. The old lady startled awake.

It was a cat. Not just any cat, but the neighborhood stray that always avoided him. He froze with heart throbbing from the jump as the feline swiped a paw at the fraying hem of his jean shorts.

"What are you doing here?" The woman asked groggily, "It's Sunday, I told you I didn't have any work for you."

The Boy winced regrettably. "S-sorry." He said tightly, "I was trying not to wake you, but the cat scared me."

The old woman relaxed again comfortably watching the cat purr against his ankle. "Looks like she's found a friend."

"No way." he slowly crouched and laid a hand tenderly on the thin back of the cat. It didn't flinch. A pure grin filled The Boy's pale cheeks. "...She's never even let me touch her before! Normally she'd be thrashing me right now."

"Ah, I've discovered that spending a little while in this shop tends to soften even the most harshly resistant strays around here." And she shot her apprentice a pointed wink.

The Boy rolled his eyes but his beam remained intact. "How long have you been taking care of her?"

The old lady explained she had been feeding the cat for a few nights when it came by but today was the first day it decided to hang around in the daylight. As she spoke the feline crawled into his lap and rolled over, still vibrating happily. Her fur was softer than he imagined it would be. The Boy allowed a little chuckle to slip his lips and hugged the cat.

"Do you think we can keep her??" he pleaded gravely. "You can take it from my paycheck to buy her food, I won't mind! I'll house train her!"

The baker shook her head in amusement. "Darling, she's a stray. She probably has plenty of people feeding her. But who knows, with you here she might just decide to move in."

Yawning she fanned herself again. It was then the air started to feel thick and hot. Glancing to the small rotating fan in the opposite corner of the storefront The Boy found it unplugged. Again.

"Ma'am!" he grumbled, rising and quickly moving to turn it on, facing it towards her. "How many times do I have to tell you keep this thing on? Come on, we're in the middle of July. If you refuse to turn on the air conditioner when customers aren't around then at least use the fan. I didn't get it for you so it could sit here and collect dust."

"Sorry, darling. I usually just do with my paper fans." She giggled and he could tell she felt bad. "I sort of forgot it was there..."

He glowered at her with a sigh. "If you get a heat stroke and die for something as stupid as this, I'm not going to your funeral."

"I told you on Friday we didn't have any work to do today," she ignored his snide comment and changed the subject. "Did you just miss me that much??"

"Don't flatter yourself, prune-face." And he held up his new green drawstring bag Dad had given him to replace the old one he lost. "I brought work."

The pack bulged with small lumps. He opened it and stooped to let her seek the thing full to the brim with whole pecans. She clapped her hands in front of her mouth and her eyes twinkled as she pinched his cheeks. He grimaced and rolled his eyes, but didn't pull away this time.

"And no, I didn't steal them." he said before she could ask. "I asked the owner if I could pick up the ones that had fallen off his tree. It's not much but I figured today I could try that pie recipe I found and test them out. If their good it might be worth adding to the menu. The owner said he couldn't gather them fast enough and he'd let me go back anytime and get the fallen ones out of his yard before they went rotten."

"But, sweetie," she said softly, "You know I... I wasn't prepared to pay you today."

"I know." Was his succinct reply.

She was silent and for a second he thought he saw the twinkling of a tear in her eye. But it was short lived and she teasingly made to box one of his ears which turned out to be a mere pet of his cheek.

"What do you say we get crackin'?" she hopped out of the chair – and by hop I mean hobbled. She stopped short in her tracks and threw a finger in the air. "Oh! But first-!"

She moved to the wardrobe cabinet beside the furnace, her socks shuffling on the thin hardwood floor. After pulling out her small cheap camera she fumbled with it for a minute and made him stand towards the sunlight. She prepared to snap a picture of his face.

"Oh?" she said then, peering closely at his brow, temple, chin and arms like she was looking for something. "No bruises today?"

"Nope."

He'd gotten used to her taking pictures of his bruises. It was part of their agreement – that he could get free jars of the magic ointment if he allowed her to record the healing process to help her improve the formula. In the beginning he hated it, especially that one day he came it with big red handprints on his arms. He was afraid her perceptive eyes would know exactly who had wrung them like that; but after telling a brief fib about him and his friends playing at who could have their arm wrung hardest before crying, she decidedly stopped asking questions. For the past five months that had been part of another but unspoken agreement between the pair: he wouldn't pry or ask her name, and she wouldn't ask about his injuries. Despite the elephant in the room, he grew to like it this way.

She cocked her head to the side wryly. "No? Actually now I think of it you haven't had any in a while. Do you mean to tell me you've finally figured out how to ride that skateboard without falling every day?"

The Boy shifted on his toes nervously, hardly concealing a proud and softly joyous smile. "...I guess you could say that."

She grinned and her face shriveled so merrily he was sure she was genuinely happy for him. "Well, I'm glad you're not getting hurt, but I have to admit I'll be sad not to be able to test this new recipe."

"Why don't you start selling it?" he raised the question for the umpteenth time this week.

She sighed. "I don't know, dear."

"Why not??" he urged. "You told me if I acted as your model for these pictures you would start selling it. I mean look at this."

He moved behind her and pressed the buttons on the camera, scrolling back to some pictures they had taken a couple months ago. "Look at how fast my bruises went away in just two days here! With these pictures you have proof that it works. You could sell it to a drug store for big bucks!"

"I suppose I could. But I don't really like the idea of working with a big company. It's more comfortable working from home."

"Then sell it here." The Boy determined. "Come on, Ma'am, with how much you pay in baking supplies, by the time you finish paying the bills you have hardly any left to spare. You can't keep paying me the way you do with your current income. Advertise it to the right buyers and this stuff would sell like hotcakes!"

"I'll think about it." The old lady put her camera back in the wardrobe. "But what I really want is to see what these pecans taste like!"

He tried to tell her he would take care of the shelling since it was her day off but she insisted on doing it together.

Flipping a switch, the lights in the kitchen slowly flickered on. He pulled a large bowl out of a cupboard as she took out a metal nutcracker hiding under the sink.

He pulled the two whicker stools out and set them at the small island for them, but not before habitually donning his favorite brown apron.

She fished through the little sack for a while, picking out what looked like the perfect medium sized nut. He watched her struggle to wedge it between the jaws of the mechanism. Her thin wrinkly arms push down on the handle with all their might. No crack was to be seen in the nut yet.

"Let me do it." He spat the words like he was peeved but was gentle in nudging her out of the way.

The old lady turned some soft of her favorite music on the radio – the same album of ancient Oriental flute tunes she always listened to – pulling a dough ball out of the fridge while he crushed the nuts.

"By the way, Ma'am?" The Boy said with a smirk, "Guess who's back at the top of their class?"

She dropped the dough on the chopping block with a shrill gasp. "You??"

The Boy nodded, blushing at her cry of excitement.

"Oh, darling, I'm so proud of you! I told you I prayed to Michizane-sama and you were bound to ace that test!" she wagged a finger at him happily. "I wonder how Ria-chan felt about that, hm?"

The teen cleared his throat and tried not to blush harder. "She talked to me about it on Friday actually, right after we all saw the results."

The woman cooed teasingly. "And how was that? Was she upset you kicked her down to second place again?"

"Not really." The Boy shrugged but his tight lips hiding a grin betrayed his indifference. "She congratulated me and... and asked if I could help her study sometime."

The old lady whistled and he snapped at her to shut up.

"You like her though, don't you?"

"...I do not." He said, ignoring the heat in his cheeks.

"Well," she kneaded the bread and by the shift of her tone he could tell she was about to dive into another one of her philosophical commentaries. "I think you'd be lucky if you ever really caught her eye the way she's caught yours."

The Boy cocked his head with a scowl. "Gee, thanks... You saying I'm not good enough for her?"

"No. I'm saying it's the other way around."

The Boy laughed. "Her??? Ria Ryuuji not good enough for me?? Who am I? I'm... I'm nobody."

"Don't get me wrong, she's a lovely gal. But she lives in a totally different world than you and me."

The Boy frowned, remembering how foreign it looked to watch her father doting on her. "I know... I've wanted to be in that world all my life."

"It goes deeper than her family's pockets." The baker said slowly. "Ria-chan is the only child from a very wealthy man. She's standing under a very big shadow. She told me once that her dream of becoming a doctor is only meant to appease her family."

"Really?"

She nodded. "I feel for the poor thing – born from the lap of luxury. Hasn't fallen too far from the tree either. Wealthy folk, they look at the world through some different glasses, let me tell ya! With all due respect to noble families like the Ryuujis, sometimes it's hard for them to even see let alone empathize with the struggles of commoners like us just because their own problems seem much more important in the big scheme of things."

The teen hesitated before slowly asking, "So...you don't think I'll ever have a chance at being friends with her?"

The old lady met his gaze with apologetic eyes. "Oh, no, honey! I think if the strings of fate intend you two opposites to attract, then nothing will stand in the way. I just... want to make sure you balance the fantasy and reality of your dreams; because it's usually the souls with the same scars that synchronize the best." She then added with a sad smile. "I don't want to see you get let down."

The way she said it made him think she understood he'd been through enough of that for one lifetime.

The Boy nodded with a flat chuckle. "Dang. I never thought you'd be the one giving me a reality check."

"Call me a crazy coot all you want, but I do have some wisdom in this old noggin." She tapped one of the space buns tied tightly on the top of her head.

After he'd finished shelling the pecans he began on the pie filling. The old woman's slow fingers were still diligently rolling the dough.

"Did I ever tell you the story of how I discovered my passion for baking when I was a little girl?" she offered another conversation starter.

"Yes!" the teen snapped. "Like a million times."

The old lady snickered. "What? You don't want to hear it again?"

"No." He grunted, cracking an egg and separating the white from the yolk in his palm. "I stopped wanting to hear it after the first ten times."

The old lady huffed playfully like she was offended and threw a pecan at him, which he caught in his mouth, sticking out his tongue mockingly.

The baker tittered, "Fine, if you don't want to hear me talk then go get me some more flour out of the pantry."

The pantry was like a shallow short room behind a sliding door. Dragging a sack of flour out – trying not to bump his head on the ceiling as he always did – he instead rammed the case of cookbooks with his tailbone, knocking several of them off. After hauling the sack next to her he went back to pick them up. Beneath the magazines was a handwritten journal lying face up. It was her notes for every improved version of the anti-inflammation cream and in the middle of the page it had fell open to was a black and white photograph used as a bookmark. Picking the book and picture up and standing, he noted the image of the handsome man in a suit holding a cheerless boy with dark eyes.

The old lady quickly moved to his side. "Oh," her voice wavered slightly. "I forgot that was in there."

"Who are they?" he asked.

The woman's lips drew together tightly. "That was my husband and our little boy. That was taken a few years before he died."

The Boy had forgotten she was a widow. In all the countless hours and conversations they'd had together, neither of them talked about their family much. He knew she was keen on the business of everyone in the neighborhood and guessed she didn't need to be told of the situation of his own parents' divorce. Every once in a while when he was in a sentimental mood he might tell her stories about the good times he remembered having with Big Sis. But the old lady, even with all her repetitious stories, never once went into detail about her own family. She hardly talked about her husband. Curious of her expression, solemn and grave for once, The Boy reverently asked how the man had died.

"He..." she took a big breath. "Well, he was a very sick man. All his life. One day it finally got the better of him."

The man in the photo was contrarily strapping and rounded; but the teen thought better than to question it.

"Did you only have one kid?" he asked.

"Yup."

"Is he... still with us?" The Boy said timidly, "You've never talked about him. You only ever say I'm your replacement for never getting grandkids."

This was meant to make her laugh. Instead she just tilted her head to the side a bit and stated,

"...My son doesn't really talk to me anymore. If he did have kids, he never wanted me to know."

Her face was sorrowful for the first time since he'd known her, but not for long. The instant she met his gaze again her eyes warmed back up as easily as if she was flipping a switch. A little bit of her made sense now. He knew exactly what it felt like to be separated from family. He himself wouldn't know how to answer without crying if she asked him why he was separated from Mom; so, likewise he spared her the pain of explaining why her son abandoned her and didn't ask any more questions.

"Well..." he said keeping the photo and putting the book back on the shelf. "I guess being your pretend grandkid isn't so bad. Besides, all my grandparents are dead so it's not like you have much competition."

She slapped his back. "Didn't I tell you the strings of fate brought us together for a reason? We make the best pair there ever was, if I do say so myself."

"Whatever." He said, handing her the photo. "You should frame this on display somewhere. I heard a superstition once that putting up pictures of lost loved ones will set the stage for their return home, or something like that."

She beamed. "Since when did you start believing in superstitions??"

"I don't." he retorted. "But I know you adore that kinda crap and it made me think of you."

"Hm." She gave a throaty laugh. "I guess we have a wager then. I'll set this out and if my son walks through those doors before the end of the year, you owe me a day's salary. If he doesn't, I'll start selling the cream and give you a raise."

"Deal."

At the end of the day though, after he'd eaten way more than his fill of the "tester" pie, the woman told him to watch the last ones in the oven while she ran an errand. He played with the cat most of the time, and when she returned with a wad of cash for him fresh out of the bank, he furiously refused, nagging that she needed to learn to save money for herself better. Naturally, the baker had her way in the end.

A short ride later The Boy got home around five-o-clock to his sober father in the kitchen before a boiling pot on the stove. Kicking off his shoes at the door, he greeted his father meekly.

"It smells good in here." The youth noted. "What are you making?"

Dad glanced up from his work. "Miso soup. But I was starting to think I'd be eating alone tonight." He remarked with the tiniest hint of teasing on his tone, "I thought you said you were just going for a ride after lunch. Run into some friends?"

The teen's chest itched just a bit with pride. "No, sir. I just lost track of time. But, um... I did do some collecting."

"Collecting?" said the man, "Without having to be asked??"

The Boy nodded, quickly meeting his father at the counter, taking the wad of cash the baker had given him out of the drawstring bag. His heart sprinted as Dad's expression went slack and he wiped his hands on a towel before taking the handful.

He held a pointed stare at the thirteen-year-old. "...How the hell did you manage this in all cash?"

You see, normally the teen made sure to take the cash the baker gave him and change it in for coins. He never gave Dad his full daily salary but made sure to vary the "collections" he gave the man, so as to avoid suspicion of getting consistent wads of cash daily. Today was the first day he'd ever dared to hand his father a whole wad of bills.

The Boy swallowed but his throat was dry. "I pick-pocketed."

Dad laughed. "You? Pick-pocketing??"

"Yes." The Boy assured, staring stiffly at the cash in his father's hands as the latter counted it. "There was... this old lady. She fell asleep in her rocking chair at the park and her purse was right there so I figured..."

The Boy bit his tongue before he risked ruining the lie. Dad kept counting the bills for what felt like an eternity.

"This is..."

The child let out a bated breath at the beginning of a grin on his father's lips.

"...Not bad." he finished slowly, "Not bad at all, peewee."

And to the son's great astonishment, the man actually chuckled. It wasn't the terrifying, livid laughter that came before a beating. It was cool and amused.

"I mean I know you've been getting better lately but... my son?? A pick-pocketer???" Dad beamed with pleasant surprise. "Have you finally grown a pair, or what?"

He ruffled his son's hair aggressively and The Boy giggled but he wasn't sure if it was out of elation or sheer relief. The man told him to go put the handful of cash in the safe. Almost not believing what he was hearing, The Boy ran to obey. Dad had never trusted him to handle the safe before. He ran to the master bedroom and grabbed the swivel-chair from his father's desk, standing on it to reach the safe and its key hidden atop the bookshelf.

It looked like the past months of judiciously, slowly, patiently, and cunningly regaining his father's trust had finally paid off. That didn't stop his father from having bad days, but The Boy almost never got guilt tripped for the incident with the letters anymore.

Dashing back into the kitchen, Dad was nowhere in sight until The Boy heard his name called from the coat closet behind him at the corner of the hall.

"C'mere." He father beckoned him.

For a split second he hesitated. Seeing his father's relaxed face though, he thought maybe this time it was safe to approach the closet.

"Yes, sir?" the teen inched forward.

The man pulled his leather satchel out of the closet and closed the door, turning to the teen. He reminded his son the promise he'd made many years ago when he was first being taught how to thieve. The Boy's mouth fell open as his father handed him the satchel.

"But, Dad!" he said, blinking at the cragged leather, "This is yours for collecting! I'm not... I mean, I don't –!"

Dad laid a big paw on his son's frail shoulder. "I can always get a new one. But a promise is a promise, right?"

The child was speechless.

"I know... we haven't always seen eye to eye on this matter." Dad said. "But I want you to know you've really done me proud lately. I'm more and more impressed every day. I think it's about time you got an upgrade, don't you?"

The Boy couldn't get it out of his head that it had been more than four months since he'd actually stolen a single yen.

"Forget this." Said Dad, stripping the thin drawstring bag off his son's wrist, "We can fit twice as much money in this sucker, now can't we?"

The satchel was well worn-in and smelt of old leather. It even had pockets. Heck, The Boy could fit more than just money in here.

Dad stood tall and in a low voice said, "I have no doubt you'll keep making me a proud father."

The teen smiled despite the pit in his stomach. Surely he could convince the baker to give him a little bit of a raise early.

"I'll do my best, Dad."

"Good boy." His father patted his back as he made his way back to the kitchen. "Now go put that some place you won't lose it and come set the table."

"Yes, sir!"

The Boy took the bag back to his room, but before he got there, stopped at the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of his dad's bedroom door. He put the satchel over his shoulder and across his chest. Dad's fit was far too long, so that it hung down to his knee. After adjusting the strap and looking at how it fit him, a portion of his smile broke off. He stepped closer to the mirror and stared at his own face very hard. If his hair was a little shorter and his eyes more brown he'd be a spitting younger image of Dad. And I mean spitting image. Picturing himself filling this bag to the brim with other people's money the way the man could pinched his gut. The pit in his core grew deeper. But before he could stare too long, Dad called him to hurry up.

"So what's the deal, peewee?" He said as The Boy quietly set the table. "First you reclaim your territory at the top of your class, now you're thieving like a pro?? What's gotten into you?"

"Uh, I guess I just..." the kid set bowls on the table, thinking hard of what Dad wanted to hear most. "I decided I needed to take my school seriously if I want to do anything worthwhile in the future. And...for a while I just wanted to do the collecting my way. I guess I learned that doing it your way really is most effective."

The Boy plastered on his most pitiable sorry expression. His father watched him for a moment as he ladled the noodle soup into the two bowls. Finally he let out a little scoff, giving his child a loose swat on the top of his head with the wooden spoon as he passed back to the kitchen. The Boy winced and rubbed the smarting spot, but he wasn't hurt. There was no anger behind that swat. It was an "I told you so" tap.

The kid started picking up the bills and checking notes Dad had laid out on the table-top. He couldn't help but read the yellow sticky note on top which his father had written out several math equations and scribbled down a note of owing what The Boy recognized as a very large amount of money.

"Dad...?" he said carefully reading the name next to the huge sum. "Who is... Akitake Goto?"

"Huh?" the man grunted, "Oh, never mind that. Just a gambling buddy of mine."

The Boy's eyes went wider. "...You owe him 880,000 yen???"

"Yeah... he's being an ass about it too. Trying to threaten me if I don't pay it back soon enough."

"But," The Boy stammered at the number. "W-we're poor, Dad, we don't have that kind of extra money just lying around..."

"Hey, I said don't worry about it. I'm taking care of it." His father ended the discussion firmly.

The size of the number was intimidating for sure, but The Boy didn't want to ruin the good mood he'd found his father in. After all, he himself was earning more than ever before in his own "collections" so it didn't feel right to complain about money now.

Sitting down to eat Dad's renowned miso soup, The Boy closed his eyes for a second. Seeing as at least his thoughts were private, he offered a silent prayer of thanks. He was grateful for hard-earned money, for saving himself from a beating, for impressing Dad, all without doing something that the old lady or Mom would be disappointed by. Thanks to the old lady, he might be able to retain some of his pride if he ever did get to see Mom again. He owed the little baker so much, and he couldn't wait to see the look on her face when he brought in an entire satchel full of pecans tomorrow.

_To be continued..._


	13. Chapter 12 - “Falling From the Tree”

This morning, Dad and The Boy went shopping and all but bought the whole store. True, this October was colder than usual, but The Boy thought it was too early to start stocking up to last a whole winter. He had asked his father if they were planning to hibernate or something, to which the man had no reply. All day he kept checking his text messages from Akitake Goto, who apparently was still pestering him, despite the father having blocked his number multiple times. Tensions were high all morning, and The Boy guessed – though Dad said little out loud these past few weeks – that the 800,000 yen he owed still wasn't paid off and was maybe even gaining digits.

After a very tense and quiet fast food brunch where Dad stared at his phone the entire time, The Boy and his father dragged their numerous brown bags through the small apartment doorframe. Dad dropped the sacks of rice at the foot of the counter and asked him to help unload things into the kitchen while he went immediately to the desk in his room to check some banking information. When the man was gone for only a moment, there was a knock on the front door.

"Dad!" the youth called, "Someone's at the door!"

There was no answer.

"Do you want me to get it??"

Not a sound came from the master bedroom, the man was probably too immersed in his anxiety to even hear his son's voice. The Boy went to the door and cracked it open, not unlatching the chain, to see who was there (because apparently these shoddy apartments were too cheap to even include peek-holes for the doors.) The teen near wet himself, finding a man's face close above his against the door from the other side. His bird-like eyes scanning the child sadistically.

"G-Goto-san…?" the teen recognized the man; he'd seen him visit his father a long time ago before all this trouble started.

"Heya, kid." The man slurred, pressing closer to the door still, "Undo this lock for me?"

The Boy pressed his shoulder against the door, pushing it closed with all his might but the man had his boot jammed in the hinge.

"Fine. Have it your way." the latter sang drolly and relented.

The door slammed abruptly shut under the child. An instant later the knob was barged back at him from the outside, knocking him flat on his back on the floor mat. Scooting back quickly The Boy jumped to his feet as Goto-san let himself in and closed the door, busted with its knob loosely rattling against the frame.

Goto-san was emaciated and thin-faced, and he had a cigarette hanging from his wrinkly mouth.

"Dad…!" The Boy called, his voice cracking a little.

"Aight, runt, let's cut the crap." said the intruder's gratingly croaky drawl, leaning forward with hands on his lanky knees. "Ya probably noticed your pops and me got ourselves into a lil' bit of a pickle; owes me a big-ass check. So how 'bout you and me make a little deal, hm?"

"Get out of our house." The Boy scowled.

"Here's the deal," the man went on carelessly, "Ya sneak into your pop's safe, get my money, and I give ya half the sum. Shake on it?"

The Boy's throat went rigid at the smell of his cig. "As if you'd actually give me a single yen of it…" He retorted, covering his mouth and masking a cough.

Goto-san urged, "Okay, how 'bout I give ya half the sum and some _very _interesting picture books. Used to read 'em all the time when I was your age. How old are ya now? Twelve?"

"Almost fourteen." The teen snapped.

"Yeah, ya'd love 'em!"

The Boy glared. "I don't know what kind of hormonal moron you think I am but I'm not going to get into my Dad's money just for some second-hand pornos. Get out of our house!"

Goto-san's expression went sour and he took a long drawl of his cigarette again, this time puffing it straight into the teen's face before standing tall.

The Boy's windpipes cinched like someone tied them in knots. Hacking and gagging, the child nearly bent double, eyes pinched closed as the sordid taste of tar scorched his shriveling lungs. At the sound of his gasping came heavy footsteps behind him and a hard smack on his back. Dad shoved an inhaler into his hands and stood between Goto-san and his son.

The intruder straightened his posture, not in the slightest afraid of Dad's appearance. "Got yourself a loyal lil kid here, don't ya."

"Get out of my house."

Goto-san slowly gazed back at the groceries on the counter The Boy hadn't finished unpacking. "Glad to see you're enjoying spending mymoney."

"Last I checked," said Dad dangerously, "Buying groceries isn't a crime. But I'm pretty sure breaking and entering is."

"As is withholding another man's money past the allotted time to pay it back. An ex-cop ought to know that."

"I told you, Akitake-kun, I'll pay you back as soon as I get the money!"

"Yeah, ya said that last time, then ya went to gamble some more… then ya said it again, and again and actually I think it's been 'bout half a year since you've been telling me that." purred Goto-san. He stepped closer to the parent as he spoke, unafraid despite the daunting difference in mass ratio between Dad and him. "But when exactly are we gonna stop sayin' and start doing, huh?"

"I told you." Dad was on the verge of growling, not angry, but like an alpha being challenged. "As soon as I get the money."

That was like gasoline to the manic greed burning in Goto-san's eyes. In the blink of an eye he had drawn and raised a thick blade up at the other's face. The Boy jumped out of his skin at the sight of the shiny knife. Dad didn't flinch in the slightest.

"D-Dad…!" The Boy frozen watched the blade hovering less than an inch from his father's throat.

The intruder sucked air through gritted teeth. "Didn't anyone ever tell ya that ya don't bet what ya can't pay, dumbass?!"

The Boy threw himself at Goto-san, trying to pull his arm away from his father but to no avail. The men held each other's gazes locked.

"Dad…??" The Boy choked on the smoke still.

His father's arm grabbed him and tossed him aside like a paperweight. "Go to your room."

"Dad, he broke in, we should be calling the cops!"

Sharply swinging a hand in the air, Dad swatted his fist over Goto-san's wrist, twisting it upward and out. The latter gave a cry, his arm seconds away from being snapped in half. But his trembling fingers refused to relent the blade.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," said Dad. "Your record isn't exactly pristine either. You want me to tell the kid to call the police? I think we both know whose side they'll always take in the end."

Goto-san's hand wavered a little longer before the knife slowly slipped from his fingers. The Boy rushed forward and snatched it up, gulping another breath from his inhaler. Dad released the intruder who quickly took several steps backwards, the fire in his eyes yearning for revenge nevertheless. A curdled kind of laugh left his mouth deliberately.

"Yeah, I know." He sneered at Dad. "We've all heard of what ya did to that woman o' yours in court. But I also know ya got some less than pretty rumors going 'round." Here he pause for a pointed glance at The Boy, "Somethin' tells me with the right witness' testimony they might not be so willing to overlook your crimes as they were back then."

The Boy took a few steps back from Dad and Goto-san to see his father's expression.

"Did ya really think all your old buddies were gonna cover your ass forever?" Goto-san went on with another laugh, "Nah, all it'd take would be for this fella here to blab 'bout your fascination with belt floggin' and you're done for."

Dad lost it. "Get out of my house!!"

"Ya won't call the cops!" Goto-san laughed. "You won't risk them looking further into your record. And you're right, I wouldn't either. But_ I_ don't need no law-man's help to get my business done; ya know I got my resources."

The teen could almost perceive the red Dad was seeing. "If you don't get the hell out I will drag your unconscious body out myself."

"No need. I just came to give ya a due warnin'." Goto-san retreated to the door, opening it and loitering in the frame. "Get my money before December unless you wanna face hell from my resources. I don't need to remind ya what happened to the last fella who cheated me, do I?"

Goto-san stepped out finally, singing over his shoulder, "Don't forget I already know some great places to hide a body!"

A very long silence ensued as Dad sat down and laid his head on the table. The Boy slowly moved to close the door.

"Dad," he asked, "What kind of 'resources' was he talking about??"

The man exhaled heavily with face still hidden and made no reply. Resentment simmered for all the futile questions he knew his father would never answer, but he didn't feel like getting beaten to a pulp. Instead he pulled a tight knit-beanie over his tussled hair, boots on his feet, and grabbed the satchel out of his room, making for the door.

"Where do you think you're going??" Dad sat up abruptly.

The Boy didn't even look at his father as he stepped out the door, still choking a cough. "What does it look like I'm doing? I need air and you need money. I'm going collecting."

It wasn't until he reached the nippy air outside the building that he realized he hadn't grabbed his skateboard. But he didn't care. He needed a walk.

The surge of questions was tortuous. Was Goto-san trying to say Dad had been protected by the police somehow when he was facing Mom in court? Was that still the case now? And what was with that last statement about hiding a body…?

_"He was bluffing, for sure." _He told himself over and over. _"He had to be."_

The cold air and stress didn't allow his windpipes to fully unravel themselves from that breath of smoke, so by the time he reached the alleyways behind the neighborhood he was nearly panting from the walk. Yet, as his eyes fell on those red bricks under his feet, warmth soothed a part of his chest. The bricks always let him know he was almost home.

But the display windows of _Heavenlee _were black, the door sign reading closed. He thought it was weird, and his heart sank heavily to see she wasn't there. The bakery was never closed on Fridays. But on the inside of the glass he found a sticky note posted, addressed to him. It read:

_Taking a day off. I do have a very important job for you, though. I'll be at the shrine between 3:00 and 6:00 waiting for you. Please come as soon as you read this._

Although he'd never visited this shrine before he knew exactly which she was referring to – she only talked about it a hundred times a day. His wristwatch told it was a quarter to five, so he hurried back to the main street.

On his way there, The Boy hoped whatever work she had for him would at least solicit some sort of paycheck, seeing as Dad would not likely let him get off without a beating tonight if he didn't bring home some sort of cash and he didn't want to have to use the money out of his secret personal savings. With wonderings of what the old lady had in mind to distract his anxiety, the walk through the town square went faster than the walk to the bakery. Beyond the suburban streets of this sect of Tokyo, was the rural bullet train station where he'd talked to Ryuuji-san a couple years ago. Surrounding it were grasslands and a dirt road. The dirt road broke off into a cobblestone path. The plains of the trail were only thinly treed. On his way, he passed a single pair of hikers but other than that it didn't seem to be a well-known trail. The humidity of the cold air increased as he got farther into the forest. It was a lucky thing he'd brought his inhaler, and he hoped he'd find the baker soon, preferably somewhere he could sit and take a breather.

He was used to walking, but the change in weather was doing a number on his asthma which had seemed to be worsening every year. This fall he'd gotten sick from it countless times already, seven of which were bad enough he had to stay home from school. The nippy breeze was creating a slight fevered chill in his bones even now. He could already feel it: this was going to be a hellish winter on his decrepit lungs.

Nevertheless it was a pleasant walk, the leafless woods reminding him of those happy memories he used to keep in the forest beyond the wall stored away in a shoebox. Finally he came to the stone path leading up to the Shinto shrine where an engraved rock with a coverlet of moss read the name of our friend Tenjin. In front of the humble temple was a single bench at the foot of the steps like the others found along the trail, which continued winding on around and along a koi pond behind the structure that was no bigger than a small shack and fenced in by short bamboo pikes. About ten yards away, The Boy scanned the area for the old lady. There wasn't a person in sight. But there was a strange looking figure sprawled out on ground beside the bench…

"…Ma'am!!"

The Boy's feet covered the distance in seconds and he was on his hands and knees before the old woman. She had a hand on the seat of the bench trembling trying to pull herself up where she lay on her side in the grass. She didn't need to ask for help, the child already had thrown his small frame beneath her weight gently, slowly, assisting her off the ground.

"What happened?!" His petite arms were strong as he tenderly set her down on the seat and helped her sit up straight. "Did you faint?? Are you hurt? Do I need to go get a doctor??"

"No… no, I'm alright. I just stumbled and bumped my head a little."

She huffed a timid laugh and her shaky hands squeezed his arms for support. He knelt in front of her, wide eyed and panicked as she chuckled. She didn't seem to hear him very well.

He clapped her gently on the cheek and waved a hand in front of her eyes. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

She squinted and replied four. He was holding two. She didn't look to pale, and feeling her pulse he found it normal. He gave her a minute, held up his fingers again and this time she answered correctly. The Boy, still kneeling in front of her, sat back on his heels with a heavy sigh and hung his head.

"I promise I'm alright, dear." she insisted. "I'm sorry I scared you."

"How long were you lying there??"

"Maybe five minutes… or ten, I don't know."

He cursed under his breath and she urged him to calm down.

"There's nothing wrong with me, okay? It's just my hip again." She said more cognitively now. "Usually walking helps work out the kinks but, I guess that walk from the station to here isn't getting any easier, hehe…"

Despite her attempts to laugh it off his brows were still deeply stitched.

"This is why I said you shouldn't do this stuff alone!" His tone was rigid, "No more hiking unless I'm with you, got it?"

She hesitated, her expression on the verge of hardening at the suggestion of her weakness. She must have seen the worry in his eyes though, for she gradually nodded agreement. The Boy sighed again and stifled some left-over wheezing coughs.

"You're flushed." She said, "Are you getting a cold?"

"Forget me." He retorted, swallowing hard and sitting beside her heavily "If you worried as much about yourself as you do me then I wouldn't have had to run like that."

"I'm so sorry. I know you're immune system has been down lately, I shouldn't have asked you to come all the way out here. Let's go home."

"Let's sit for a second first." He groaned breathlessly after a solid draw from his inhaler. "Besides, I thought you had work for me?"

She giggled bashfully and admitted she only wanted him here to keep her company.

"I swear, Ma'am…" he grumbled. "You'll be the death of me."

The rosy color had come back to her eyes now. "I love you too, dear."

The vibrant red and orange leaves surrounding them starkly contrasted the gray overcast sky. It was a peaceful enough sort of place, even if the breeze was a bit nippy. He decided he'd risk his chances catching a cold. The old lady needed to sit and be peaceful for a little while before he should try to move her again. It was now he noticed the small drip of red running down her temple, already starting to swell.

"'Bumped my head a little' my butt…" he griped, fishing into his satchel. "You be thankful I happened to leave my jar of cream in here the other day and I still have clean napkins from lunch."

After wiping the blood away he scooped into the jar with two fingers and started applying a generous amount to her temple. She closed her eyes and hummed happily.

"What are you smiling for?" he glared.

"Can't help it." She tittered. "Every girl loves being fretted over by men."

Grabbing an emergency bandage out a pocket of the bag, he tore it open with his teeth.

"Don't flatter yourself, prune-face. I'm only worried 'cause if anything happens to you I'm out of a job." he riposted, spitting out the paper and pressing the adhesive onto the small cut. "Don't get used to it."

"Too late."

When he sat on the bench beside her again, she thanked him heartily for coming. He shrugged, said it was nothing and that after that puff of cigarette smoke this morning he needed some fresh air anyway even if it was cold.

"Cigarette??" said the woman. "Who was smoking? Not your father, I hope. You said he doesn't smoke for your sake."

"No, he doesn't." was all The Boy said. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees.

"What is it?" urged the baker. "Something's on your mind."

He just shook his head. Voicing thoughts is always scary. It makes them feel more real.

After a pause she turned her gaze back to the shrine, for once she wasn't prying. Instead she left the floor open for him to share willingly.

"It's just…" The Boy's anxiety seemed to spill out his tongue like it needed to escape. He wasn't quite aware of making the decision to talk at all. "Dad and I went shopping this morning and when we got back this guy he gambles with came to our apartment. He was trying to start a fight because Dad hasn't paid back some money he borrowed. They just… they were talking about how neither wanted to get the police involved in their fight because Goto-san has a bad record and… they brought up my dad's divorce with my mom and Goto-san made it sound like…like… I don't know." The teen shrugged trying to keep his voice causally even, "It just sounded oddly like he was trying to say there was some foul-play in like…the way they got separated or something?? I'm sorry I'm not making any since it's just been bothering me all morning. I wish my dad would talk to me about this stuff."

The baker nodded with a tight expression. "Well, no one who knew about the situation could deny there was foul-play involved. But I doubt anyone really knows the whole truth and I think your dad likes it that way. I know it's frustrating, but who knows. Maybe it's a blessing in disguise he doesn't let you know everything that went down."

He was used to the old lady talking like she knew everything about everyone in the neighborhood; yet everything about her mien was different, more solemn now.

"_You _know though, don't you??" he voiced the realization without filtering.

The woman averted her eyes and let out a deep sigh.

"You do know!" he cried. "What really happened?? Tell me!"

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "No, dear, it's not my business to say. And it wasn't pretty, you don't need to know all tha–"

"I do!!" he leapt to his feet. "I need to know why she couldn't take me with her!"

"…"

He hadn't meant to say that. But what did it matter. He needed answers more than he did pride at this point.

"Please, Ma'am…" he begged. "How did Dad get custody of me when she was the one who filed for the divorce? How come she didn't take me with her?"

The bitter sorrow on the woman's face told him she knew the depths of the answers better than anyone.

"What, did she not love me as much?"

"No!" the old lady grimaced. "No, it wasn't that. Her plan was always to take _both _of you."

"Then why didn't she??" he demanded, his voice hardening more than he intended it to.

"…He was renowned in the police department." She finally relented. "Considering how young he was and how many years he'd been at it. He had a lot of friends and everyone knew better than to oppose him, even in the court."

Even before Goto-san said something this morning, somehow The Boy always suspected that could have been the case. But that didn't stop it from making him sick to his stomach at the thought of it.

"So how'd he do it?" the teen asked tartly.

"I don't know _exactly_…" she began carefully, "But what I do know is that before your mother issued him the divorce papers she was never on anti-depressants."

"So?"

"So…your father did what he thought he had to to keep things under control."

Silence reigned on the chilly tranquil scene for a beat.

"Are you trying to say," his voice shook ever so slightly, "That my dad put her on those anti-depressants? To get her addicted so he could control her?? You mean she didn't even need them?!"

The woman continued her sad gaze at the temple without a word. The Boy's mind raced and his limbs went wobbly so that he fell back to his seat next to her.

"You know I would do anything to help you, right?" the baker said almost inaudibly after giving him a moment to gather his thoughts. "If there was any way to get you away from him you know I would. Since I'm the only one left here who knows the truth."

His heart was trying to break through his chest. "…How much truth??"

She finally turned and met his eyes, her lips tightening into a sorrowful half-smile. "…Much more than you probably want me to, dear."

His eyelids flickered and he exhaled. Strange, he thought. He didn't expect relief to be the first thing he felt when the elephant in the room finally came out.

"How?" he couldn't keep himself from asking.

She reached for her purse beside her. "This picture… I've always keep it in my wallet but, since I'm sure your dad has gotten rid of all the family photos, I've been meaning to give it to you."

She withdrew a folded photograph and put it in his hands. Timidly he unfolded it to find a picture of the baker hugging a young woman with strawberry blonde hair standing outside the storefront of _Heavenlee_. The sight of her dragged a wave of memories from the graveyard of his heart. He hadn't seen a picture of that face in over a year.

"Th-This is my mom."

"I'm sorry for not mentioning it sooner. You have to understand old people like me when they get sentimental, some things in the past can be hard to recall."

The Boy blinked frustrated eye-water away. "You knew her??"

"Oh yes. She's the daughter I always wished I'd had."

Speechless, he'd accuse her of lying if not for the picture. His mother's smile was unmistakable, although wrapped in much smoother skin with less stress lines. Even her hair was less salted than he remembered.

"You know I was the reason for your parents getting together?" the woman laughed, reminiscent. "They worked for me when I first opened the shop, that's how they met. Hehe, it all started as a competition to see who'd be my leading apprentice."

The Boy said nothing still. He'd never heard Dad talk about how he met Mom. In fact he only had a couple memories of his parents ever having acted like they were in love. He wanted the baker to tell him the whole story from start to finish but his throat was closed. Thankfully the baker was always good at reading his mind.

"With your father in the police force," the old woman explained. "I was going to retire and hand the keys over to your mom as a wedding gift. But you know they were _so _young when he proposed. She was only seventeen so I was going to have to wait a couple years after the wedding before she could legally take over. She kept working the shop with me for the first year of their marriage. Then she got pregnant with your sister and… that was when your dad started becoming more reclusive. He made her quit work in the later months of the pregnancy, but I thought she'd come back once the baby came. Slowly but surely they started giving me more and more reasons why they couldn't leave the house and one day they left the shop for the last time and never came back." Here the woman's tone went very hesitant. "I saw your sister once when she was a newborn but… years went by and all I could get was a call from your mom every once in a while – they were never long, like she wasn't allowed to talk much. One day I went down to the station to see if I could visit your father and talk to him myself and was told that he'd quit so he could be home with his wife who was expecting their second child. After that I stopped getting calls. But I did get a sweet letter from her with a family picture of the four of you and a note saying she didn't want me to try to contact you guys anymore."

Out of the horde of questions, the easiest one for the child to grasp was, "So… when you saw me in your alley that day, you knew exactly who I was? That's the real reason you wanted me as your apprentice isn't it?"

"Not entirely." she replied softly. "I really did feel your spiritual presence as an answer to my prayer. I wasn't lying about having been praying for an apprentice. After I lost your parents it was years before I had the heart to look for another. When I saw you in the alley that day I just… Like I said, souls with the same scars tend to attract, you know?"

She finished that sentence much less confidently than was characteristic, and it disturbed The Boy. antagonism swelled when the dots finally started to connect.

"Wh…What? Are you trying to say _you and me_ share the same scars? How??"

Her eyes turned from her wrinkled hands nervously fingering at her skirt and met his. Once again the child couldn't help catching a ghost of something so familiar in them.

"You know that healing cream is a real pain to make?" she said matter-of-factly. "Trust me, I wouldn't have labored for years developing a recipe for ointment that will make bruises vanish if I didn't need it as much as you do."

Her gaze never failed. No more explanation was necessary.

"No. Shut up." A bitter mixture of grief and wrath pulsed throughout him. "Don't say that… That's not funny."

The old woman shrugged. "I told you; we're peas in a pod…"

"Who was it???" the teen seethed, his eyes burning letting her know he was ready to kill the man.

"Don't worry, dear." She assured weakly. "Like I said, my husband was a sick man. He drank himself into the grave."

Stillness frosted the autumn scene long enough to allow the silence to ring his ears. When the livid shock of what he was hearing finally simmered down, he gripped his temples, photo still in hand and shielding his eyes so she wouldn't see his expression which he was sure was contorted and gross. He felt the urge to cry, but his brain was still working to process exactly which part he was most upset about. On his back came the gentle pat of the woman's skinny hand.

"I know this is a lot to take in." She said. "But I just want you to know this one thing: You see, your mom and I aren't supposed to talk much because your father knows we are probably the only people who will ever challenge him and he doesn't want us 'conspiring.' But she has managed to reach out to me once about a year ago. She told me she had been writing letters to you, that you had suddenly stopped writing, and next thing she knew your father issued her a stricter restraining order. She asked me a favor that day. Do you want to know what it was?"

The Boy nodded his face against his hands.

"She asked me to keep an eye on her son." said the lady, peace lighting her voice again. "She told me if I ever got the chance, without letting your dad suspect anything, to make sure you were taken care of until she was able to do it herself one day."

The Boy raised his eyes to hers.

"Yes, dear, she's still working to be able to take you home, and your sister is helping too."

The child's brows curled wretchedly as the answers he'd longed for began to fester as they set in. After everything Dad had done to make his life miserable, there was still a part of him that didn't want to believe the man could have ever reached such a low of cruelty with Mom.

"…I hate him." He said solidly. "I hate how he treated my sister. I hate how he lied about my mother. I hate that he's made me so different from everyone else. But it's just…"

He clutched the satchel his father had been crazy-proud to give him, biting his lip to keep it from quivering. "Ma'am am I… am I a bad person because I still want to make him proud?"

The old woman pecked the top of his messy hair. "No matter what he says or does, you're still his son and you always will be. That's not your fault."

A sob wanted to break loose at the relief that came with those understanding words, but he only nodded and inwardly thanked the baker.

Coughing himself back to a clear voice, he asked hopefully. "So do you still talk to my mom??"

The old lady hesitated before answering very gravely. She probably knew exactly what he was hoping.

"No. Honey, I'm sorry but we haven't been lucky enough to keep in touch with all the obstacles your father has given us. And although I wish more than anything to let her and you talk again, I'm afraid if your father ever found out –"

"I understand." The Boy said sadly but with resolve. "I shouldn't risk getting Mom in any more trouble than she's already in."

He stood bolt up, commanded his voice with determination. "Then we'll just have to keep waiting. If Mom can wait this long and work this hard to get me back then I can be patient too. Besides, if I'm going to be the leader of the family one day when we are all together – and that includes you – then I waste anymore time pitying myself, can I? If my dad or any man wants to hurt any of you ever again then you tell them they gotta deal with me first, okay?"

He extended his hand and helped the elder to her feet. "Come with us, Granny. When Mom and Big Sis get everything together we'll have the rest of our lives to make up for lost time. We can all be your apprentices. We can move _Heavenlee _to a better location where we'll get a lot more business. We can bring the cat and everything."

The keen old eyes probably saw right through his excitement and that deep down he was trying to find reasons to peel his heart away from his father.

"Me moving to Okinawa with you all?" she humored him, "I think that'd be pretty crazy."

"Exactly. Should be right up your alley."

He donned his satchel while the old lady slipped her hand under his elbow. Slowly he started leading her down the trail leading to the main road and towards home. She admitted she loved the sound of his plan and remarked how adorable he was when trying to be protective.

"Shut it, prune-face." He beamed.

_To be continued..._


	14. Chapter 13 - “The Courageous Boy”

Autumn faded into a bitter December that year as The Boy had dreaded. Finally the endgame of Yukine's life-long battle rolled around.

Today was The Boy's birthday. Today he turned fourteen.

Dad had made him and early breakfast with all his favorite foods to celebrate this morning before he had to leave for work – he had been forced to take on a second job in desperate hopes of saving up 800,000 yen before new years. Needless to say, The Boy didn't get any presents. They couldn't really afford such luxuries what with Goto-san breathing down their necks hungry for every penny they earned. Normally his father wouldn't make him collect on his birthday, but The Boy knew better than to object this morning when his father hurriedly gave him a quota to meet before running out the house for a full day's work.

The Boy now swung the satchel around his shoulder and stepped into the manga café on the square. He had just been biding his time all day until he could head over to the shop where Granny would surely find something to pay him for. Clambering onto the tall stool at the bar, he ordered a milkshake, indulging in the pride of knowing he could pay for it with his own hard-earned money.

A small grandfather clock hanging on the wall behind the barista read 7:39pm. The only reason The Boy wasn't at Heavenlee already was because the old lady claimed she wasn't going to start working until later in the evening. She had told her apprentice not to come in until then to help her get ready for the catered order they just received. However, she never prepared catered orders this early in advance and when he skated by this afternoon he peeked through the windows and thought he could see her in the kitchen already cooking up a storm. Since then he'd been luxuriously fantasizing about what sort of surprise she was obviously planning. Even as the milkshake filled his stomach his thoughts drifted to pecan pies, lemon custard cookies, and all the alamode he could dream of.

The Boy smiled against his straw where he sat at the bar. Even if she hadn't been preparing a surprise for him, he'd be glad just to see her. Despite the dry winter air having woke him up with burning windpipes and the beginnings of a yet another fever this morning, he was confident this year's birthday tonight with Granny would be one of the best. The only way it could get better – besides maybe being asthma-and-cold-free for a change – would be if two other women could be there. These women he thought of every year, one of them he had to keep reminding himself was actually a young woman somewhere, not the twelve year old girl he last saw. If they were here, tonight's celebration at Heavenlee would be perfect.

Little did he know that his mother and twenty-year-old sister had boarded a plane yesterday morning bound for him with hopes just as high.

The fourteen-year-old was well immersed in his thoughts when the man sitting next to him bolted out of his seat and ordered the barista turn up the volume on the TV opposite them that was playing the local news. The screen showed a live recording slide of images of policemen taken in the smaller Tokyo airport a few neighborhoods away from here. The Boy's attention, like everyone else in the parlor, was drawn to the TV.

The airport had been the scene of a mass murder with the culprit unidentified and still at large. The criminal seemed to have had no specific target, killing most but leaving some alive at random. So far the only speculation was a terrorist attack.

Said the broadcaster, "It appears the terrorist lashed out at the people stepping out of the gates of a newly arrived flight. Recordings of the airport lobby confirm what appears to be a young man in a black kimono attacking civilians within the building with a type of long-sword. However we suspect there must have been an error in the cameras as his presence is difficult to detect on the video footage we have gathered. So far surviving victims have all experienced what medical officials can only accredit as mass post traumatic stress induced amnesia, as they can almost all remember witnessing the attack but are unable to give a visual description of the assailant."

There was a low gasp and sigh of disbelief throughout the parlor as the TV showed short slow-motion and undefined clips from one of the cameras that viewed the landing gates where yellow police tape obscured policemen bent over bodies of injured people being lifted onto stretchers. The Boy looked away. The thought of all those people, probably coming home for the holidays, being attacked and some of them killed by a senseless maniac...

I don't blame him. I'm disgusted too when I look back on it.

The broadcaster's voice continued, "Thirty-three hours after the attack, police and hospital officials are still making calls to the relatives of these victims to come and identify the bodies. Police are working hard to trace the culprit. However we ask everyone in the region to exercise caution leaving their homes alone, as we have yet to predict where and if he may strike again."

While the men next to him were expressing their horror and others in the café discussed the tragedy, The Boy stood and put his coat and beanie back on; he didn't want to hear any more of it. As he left the café and threw down his skateboard and started towards the bakery, he wondered if the old lady would be praying for the lost souls. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about the news had set a cramp in his chest.

Soon he found his own hand-made signs drawing traffic from the intersection back to the front of the alley-way shop. He picked up his board and trotted down the brick alleyway, taking a deep, foggy sigh of frigid air. He coughed and ignored the warmth in his face. It wasn't the first time he had been sick this winter, and it wouldn't be the last. He could survive a tiny cold for a day.

It's not like a little cough was going to be the death of him.

It was beginning to snow again, and he couldn't wait to get into the warmth of the shop. Finding the door sign flipped to closed as expected, he unlocked it with his own spare key, and entered with the jingle of the bell on the door. The lady was nowhere in sight. She wasn't expecting him here so early, so she was probably in the kitchen still cooking. But there was something else a little off in the atmosphere. Something was missing here.

"Granny?" he said called quietly. There was no reply.

It was the silence. There wasn't any music playing from the radio on the counter like she normally had when working. He stepped to the bar, took off his coat and set in on the back of one of the stools. His beanie and satchel he set on the counter next to the photo of the baker's husband and son – shortly after their bet this summer she had polished the frame and set it here to see whether or not her son would return the way The Boy's superstition said he would.

He searched the kitchen but still no sign of his mentor. He called again with no reply.

"The lights are all on so she couldn't have gone to the store or anything."

Rushing across the kitchen he flung open the door to the back room where she stayed after-hours.

There sat the old woman on her cot in the dim tight room, her apron covered in purple jelly stains like she had been in the middle of baking. Bent over she stared at a photo album spread over her lap.

"Granny, what are you doing?" he demanded, "Why didn't you answer when I called?" Raising her head, a tear streamed from red eyes down her already wet saggy cheeks. She painted a very forced smile on her lips.

"H-happy birthday..."

The Boy stepped in and closed the door. "Granny, what's wrong??"

He swiftly sat beside her and asked again what was wrong but she was all a mess, her frail shoulders heaving as if giving in. He took the album and laid it over his own lap to see what she had been looking at. There on the page were a few pictures of Mom, Big Sis, and him before the girls left. His heart skidded to a breathless pause.

"What's wrong?" He repeated, closing the album and facing her.

It took a good amount of pats on the back and soothing from The Boy before he could get a word from the old lady. All the while an annoying anxiety about what he saw on the news and worst case-scenarios rampaged his brain. When Granny did speak, she could scarcely muster anything above a whisper.

"...I-I-It was supposed to be a surprise."

"What surprise??" he begged her to explain.

Now the landline phone on the wall rang piercingly in the thin silence of the dim room. The old woman took no notice so The Boy let it ring out.

"Your mother and sister..." she managed finally. "They wanted to surprise you for your birthday."

The Boy waited. He dared not to say a thing until it sunk in. The first thing that absorbed was joy. Without waiting for the rest of the dots to connect, he disbelievingly thought aloud.

"H-how... you mean...here??" he said, beaming in confusion and searching her usually cheerful eyes. His voice cracked. "You mean –! You mean they got permission to come see me?!"

The elder, still staring at the floor, nodded with eyes pinched closed and lip quivering in a smile that then cracked. Hanging her head she clutched her face with trembling hands, every ounce of her trying to keep it together in front of him.

The phone began to ring again. Again the baker let it ring out.

And when the rest of the dots connected, The Boy did his best to tell himself it must be wrong.

"But this is a good thing, Granny." he said slowly. "They're on their way here... right?"

The voicemail on the machine barely had time to play out before a new call immediately sounded again.

"Oh, won't you stop!" The old lady jumped from her seat with impressive rage and vigor, lurching for the phone. She picked it up and hung it up forcefully.

"What's going on??" The Boy begged gravely.

Granny shakily collected herself, this time successfully and sat down close to her apprentice.

"I'm so sorry you have to see me like this." She took his hands. "I know I'm in no state to give you the news but... this is one secret I shouldn't keep from you as much as I wish I could."

The Boy's skin chilled when she asked him if he saw the news today. Fright burning his stomach, warmth drained from his face. He shook his head in denial of the obvious. It took a few moments for the woman to collect her thoughts to say any more. Those moments stretched on forever. With nothing but the ticking hum of the furnace out in the shop, everything was still. The rest of his life depended on whether or not the baker was about to confirm his worst fear.

The teen had no clue how many of those eternal painful seconds passed before she finally spoke.

She squeezed his hands and voiced his name carefully. "I... got a call a little while ago. It was from the police."

Before she mustered the strength for another sentence there came the distant sound of the bell jingling on the front door and the teen regretted not locking it when he came in. A man's voice loudly called, muffled through the walls.

The woman stared at her apprentice for a beat. Tears sprang up in her eyes. The loud voice demanded her again. Almost angrily she stood up.

"We're closed!!" she cried through the back room door. Her clenched fists and agitation at the intrusion betrayed more than mere annoyance at the customer. She seemed to know exactly who the customer was, though through the walls his voice was indistinguishable. Yet there came no sound of the bell jingling on the door to tell of the person leaving. It occurred to the youth this could have been the persistent caller as the baker rounded with an ardently troubled shroud over her face.

"This is terrible timing, dear," she explained setting a hand on the door knob, "But I've been avoiding some important business with this customer. It won't take long so just sit tight, okay?"And she lifted her brows warily. "No matter what, don't leave this room."

"Who is it?" He asked hesitantly.

She forced a grin distorted with dismay. "Let's just say I think you've won our little bet."

With that she closed the door behind her and soon he heard the kitchen door close too as she went to the front of the store to meet the urgent shopper.

Could it be her son? The Boy couldn't imagine anything else she meant by that last statement.

The apprentice silently opened the door and paced through the kitchen. The old lady must have stood closer to the kitchen, for he could hear her half of the conversation well enough and he saw her silhouette through the paper door. The baker's son must have been standing close to the front, for The Boy couldn't make out his muffled responses, nor see his silhouette.

"It's been so long..." the teen heard his mentor say, "Did you have to let it get this far before paying your mother a visit?"

The Boy almost stopped breathing with how carefully he strained to pick up fragments of the conversation. He slowly went to the side of the door to press his ear to the frame without his shadow being seen through the paper. A garbled reply came from the customer but he couldn't make out his words.

There was a pause before the old lady replied gently. "Yes. I've seen the news."

The man said something else The Boy couldn't make out.

"I know." Responded Granny with a crackling voice. "I'm very sorry for your loss... our loss."

The Boy heard the man raise his voice a tone. The baker seemed to hesitate before timidly answering what sounded something like, "I don't know what you're talking about."

The man raised his voice higher so that The Boy could almost hear what he was saying. He guessed they were both right near the counter now. Like a watchdog, the teen readied to pounce. It sounded like her son was drawing closer to her as he spoke louder and louder.

Her son demanded an answer again. She didn't reply. There was a harsh slapping thud like papers being smacked down onto the counter. The Boy could hear the old lady flinch. His bones were burning to go stand between her and the agitated customer; he didn't even realize his hand hovering over the door handle. The baker's voice pleaded for the client to calm down. In return there came the pound of heavy footsteps and her shrill cry. The Boy lit up from the inside.

"Please, calm down." Said the woman where her son had pinned her between the counter and was holding her wrist tightly. "What's done is done. You'll only make things worse for yourself... please... dear. Don't make things worse."

"Don't pretend like you don't know this is your fault!" The son shouted in his mother's face, "They would still be alive if you'd kept your nose out of our busine-!"

The man was thrown aside by the force of a metal skillet slamming into the back of his head. In a miraculous burst of strength the frail teen tackled the man like a battering ram and they both hit the floor. In the process the man swept the counter with his long arm and knocked over the picture frame of the old lady's husband and young son so that it shattered on the hardwood edge of the tatami.

"She said we're closed!!" The Boy bellowed at the assailant lying face down under himself. "I don't care who you are, I'll kill you if you think of coming near her again!"

Granny shrieked piercingly and grabbed The Boy by the shoulders, dragging him off the man and to his feet.

"I told you not to leave the room!!"

"You stay behind me." The Boy held out an arm between her and her son sprawled on the floor.

Truth be told, the teen couldn't believe he'd managed to throw a full grown man to the ground and he didn't try to stop the rush of confidence and adrenaline to his head. Looking to the broken picture of the baker's child son on the floor, then to the man groaning and rubbing the back of his head with his face covered by a dark hood, The Boy waited to see if the faces really did match. If the poor teen hadn't been so hyped up on adrenaline, he might have noticed the real danger sooner.

The back of the man slowly stood to its full height – which was a lot of height. Turning to face The Boy slowly, his groan of pain became a familiar growl.

Indeed, those were the same dark brown eyes of the baker's son in the picture. They were also the same ones that haunted The Boy's every thought of home.

His mouth went dryer than a desert, cold sweat beading his nape. "...Dad...?"

"Ma...?" the father all but snarled at the elderly, "You care to explain why the hell my son just hit me upside the head with one of your pans???"

"Leave him out of this!"

In The Boy's shock he had let his arm go lax so that she jumped between her two boys now. "I made him come here; this is my doing. I swear he's innocent, I never told him about any of this."

Dad glared at them both for a while longer, his eyes red and puffy, like they'd been crying.

"Hah..." Dad finally tittered cynically with a miserable agony in his face as he glowered daggers into The Boy. "Is this how you've been 'collecting' so much lately?? You two been getting all chummy?? She's been filling that damn bag of yours, is that what this is?!"

The child flinched at the sudden roar, forgetting how to breath. Dad slowly reached for the satchel The Boy had put on the counter. A hateful tear rolled down his manic face.

"...And here I was thinking you actually wanted to do your old man proud."

Somehow the only thing registering in The Boy mind was a replaying clip of what he'd just done. He just hit his father... He just hit Dad...with a frying pan! And he wasn't dead...yet.

The baker pleaded her son's name, "Have a heart! You've seen the news and the boy... He... he doesn't know yet."

Dad was silent for a long time staring into his son's shocked face. His lips frowned deeply and his brow crinkled together. Finally the teen came back to his senses and grabbed Granny by the arm, tugging her behind himself and away from Dad. The old woman tried to do the same to him but he was stronger and held her far out of harm's reach.

"Wh...What's going on?" he questioned his father, half addressing the question to the elder behind his back, "Why are you calling her 'Ma'???"

Dad wordlessly slung the satchel over his shoulder – which almost didn't fit him now that The Boy had adjusted it to his own size. He wasn't looking at his mother or son, he was looking at the ground and running his fingers through his hair in agitation, looking like a ticking bomb.

"Dad..." The Boy and the old lady backed into one of the tables now. Still wide eyed and vigilant he cleared his throat and demanded an answer. "Dad what's going on?? You told me my grandmother was dead!"

"As far as you were concerned," the father bore a fiery stare at his elderly mother, peeking above The Boy's shoulder, "...she should have been."

The Boy dared to take his eyes off of his father and glanced at the old lady behind him. His eyes said everything his mouth couldn't. Granny met his gaze with a heavy sadness in her frown.

Once again she repeated despairingly, "...It was supposed to be a surprise."

"You and your surprises." Dad seethed, "Why don't you tell my son the truth about how you've been breaking the law by seeing him as often as you obviously have?? How about you explain some of this-!" he scraped up a file of papers he had slammed on the counter, "-To me!"

He chucked the file at them so the papers exploded onto the floor at their feet. The guts of the manila folder looked to be a lot of complicated but official notices. The Boy couldn't remember ever seeing his father so red-eyed, disheveled, and hysterical. Pity cinched his stomach. His father had enough to stress him out with Goto-san's death threats around every corner – he didn't need whatever was threatening him in these papers.

Still holding his grandmother back with an arm he slowly stooped and picked up a page to which were clipped several photographs. Skimming it he discovered it was an official notice to Dad that he'd lost custody of him on the grounds of being a physically abusive danger to him. The document claimed the photos attached were some of the evidence the court had used to convict him. The Boy immediately recognized them as some of the pictures the old lady had taken of his bruises she said she had needed for research about the ointment recipe.

"Gran," he mumbled, "What is all this??"

The old woman made him turn to face her and she explained softly, clearly trying hard not to think of the fact that Dad was standing across the room listening too.

"Y-your father had convinced the courts that your mother and I were a danger to you beyond the point of repair." She barely whispered. "Neither of us were allowed to see you. But... your mother and her brother have been working for years to clear her record. She still couldn't convince them to let her see you, but she could help your sister."

As she spoke the youth picked up more and more pages, reading them hungrily.

"When she came of age she started trying to earn guardianship of you herself. She managed to clear your mom's and my records. Since she already had evidence that you were held here against your will from the letters you sent your mom, all she needed was proof of the claim that your father was... violent. That's where I came in and..." she said, timorously gesturing to the photographs of The Boy's bruises. "And a couple weeks ago your sister finally obtained permission to come bring you home."

There was silence while the teen read the restraining order telling Dad that Big Sis now had full custody of him until he came of age. For some reason the first thing to come to his mind wasn't joy. All he could think of was the memories of the hatred Dad always had for his sister.

"I hope you're proud of yourself, Ma." Said the man, approaching sluggishly.

The Boy tensed into a shield again as he drew nearer.

"What good did your prayers do you this time, huh?" her son asked sharply. "Those girls haul ass all the way over here just to be cut down by some psycho in a kimono the second they step off the plane. How's that for an answer to prayer??"

The Boy scoffed. Something just kicked the air out of his lungs. Everything spun. The furnace gave off no heat. The air was dry and insipid, not a trace of its normal sugary aroma.

_"No, no, no, no, no..." _His hands raked his scalp. He pinched his eyes shut. I'm _"That's not true... It can't be. It's not." _

Dad stood close now. Granny lay a hand on her grandson's shoulder. He raised eyes to meet hers, wordlessly begging her to say it wasn't so. But a tear glistened in each of her eyes, and The Boy knew that his father must have received the same news from the police that she had earlier.

"But..." his lips quivered with a dejected shake of his head. "...she promised."

Though the child couldn't feel his own face going pale and breathing getting shallow, his grandmother must have noted his pending asthma/anxiety attack and immediately tried to remove the threat.

She pushed against The Boy's back, striving towards her son. "You coming here was never going to change anything. You read the notice: in-in the event something should happen to the girl and her mother then I am to take care of him. So... you are free to leave."

Dad regarded his mother long and hard. Her reluctant expression betrayed that her love for her son still outweighed her desire to fight him.

"I can't believe..." the man muttered pitifully, "My own mother..."

The Boy, choking back the urge to vomit and worrying first for Granny, sensed the deep shame and regret seeping into the lady's weather-worn heart just before she pressed her forehead to the back of his shoulder to hide her face. Her fingers squeezed his arm tightly. At this all the conflicting emotions seared together into one raging flame of indignation – he knew exactly what Dad was doing to her and knew exactly what that guilt trip felt like.

Although he wanted right now to never see his father again, he knew the abuser wouldn't leave without him. The Boy would have to go home with his father for now until the authorities could intervene. But he knew his parent and that he'd never walk out of here without a fight. The best he could hope for now was to direct the line of fire on himself and away from Granny.

It would have been a fine plan if his grandmother would have been cowardly enough to sit back and let him be beaten like he wished she would.

"Get out." The Boy swallowed down all the love he ever had for Dad, but his windpipe was already constricting so all he could manage was a half-gagging hiccup on the verge of hyperventilation. Glaring through tears he forced more words to leave his throat. "I'm staying with my grandmother."

Finally the bomb erupted.

The Boy was thrown backwards into the old lady, both nearly breaking their backs against the table. The former fell to the ground but the adrenaline still flowed thick in his blood and he didn't quite realize his lip had been split open, only that the baker was rushing towards the hysterical man he'd just intentionally angered. She was about to take the rest of the blows he'd set up for himself.

He shouted for the woman to back off but she tried with all her might to hold back her son, like a mouse pushing against a brick wall. In one fell sweep of his arm, the man slapped his mother and she too fell to the ground, but not before slamming her head against one of the metal chairs. She didn't get back up.

"Granny!!"

The Boy ran for her but Dad had him by the collar of his sweater.

"You are going home with me! I will not be undermined by that little wench of a girl!!" Dad seethed. "Just when I thought I'd gotten your bitch mother out of your head you go run off with your senile grandmother! I'm grounding you for the rest of your existence and no one is going to tell me I can't!!"

"Big Sis wasn't a wench!" The youth grabbed his father's wrist and forced it slowly away from his throat. "Mom... was not a bitch!"

His elbow sank into the inside of Dad's arm sending it falling limp and numb.

"And my grandmother's not senile!!"

Within seconds the teen's cheek was red from the familiar sting of the heavy wedding-banded fist. Next thing he knew his face was in his father's hand inches away from his.

"How many times do I have to tell you–!?"

"As many times as it takes for you to realize I'm never going to listen!!"

"Don't think for a second that I won't use the dark punishment!!!"

Trauma shook the teens nerves with images of the black cellar flashing. The Boy was frozen with fear for an instant before he laughed to keep himself from crying.

"Try me."

"...Excuse me??" And now Dad was the one looking a little helpless. "I will give you to the count of three to repent and come back home without causing a scene before I have to carry your limp body back myself!"

His head was already feeling the effects of oxygen-deprivation and the child was fighting so hard to keep his breathing even he was sure Dad would be carrying his limp body regardless.

"One!" Dad cried.

The Boy truthfully was not sorry. He meant what he said.

"Two!!"

No more pretending to comply. No more giving him the satisfaction. Granny needed him. The Boy mustered one last attempt to break free.

Dad hissed through his teeth, "Two and a half...!! You think I'm bluffing?!"

"No." the teen uttered one last lie to his father, "I'm just not scared."

As The Boy squirmed Dad twisted his arm into submission, overshooting his strength by just too much so his son dove flat on his face in an arm-lock. But by the time they hit the ground a loud crack of bones splitting already popped from the child's arm followed by the teen's wheezing scream.

"Haaagh! Dad! My arm!!" The Boy screeched, writhing against the anguish inebriating every inch of him from his fingers to his shoulder.

The old woman moaned and her head turn towards his cries. For a split second the teen locked eyes with his grandmother where they lay even on the ground before she lost consciousness and her eyes rolled back again.

He had bones to spare; but what was most important was getting the baker to a doctor.

Dad pushed the limp arm harder up his son's back, "I said two and a half!"

"No!!!" The Boy went limp. Through all the pain, heartache, disappointment, and worry, for a fleeting second he was glad to deny his father. Mom would have been proud.

"Three." Dad huffed solemnly. "Looks like you're coming with me."

But the parent no longer had to fight to take The Boy by force. He could surely feel his son's choppy breath. The man stood slowly and his child stayed where he was, motionless with nothing but a short whine as his broken arm fell back to the floor beside him.

Dad shot a hated glance at his elderly mother on the ground. "My lawyer will be hearing about all of this."

He straightened his clothes The Boy had nearly ripped off of him, and looked down at his two victims lying helpless, one of them paralyzed by old bones, the other half-faint from lack of oxygen. Kneeling by his mother, he bent over and slapped a hand down on the floor by her face.

"Listen, Ma," he said into her half-open eyes. "You say a word of this to anyone and The Boy never sees the light of day again, understood?"

Dad went back to his son and forced him onto his feet. The Boy allowed his father to lead him to the front door. He didn't make a sound or argue, but played the part of a limp rag-doll as best he could. When Dad stepped outside into the cold alley way, The Boy seized his chance.

He lurched and threw himself into his father like earlier, only he didn't have as much strength now. Dad only was taken by surprise and stumbled back a few feet, but it gave the teen all the time he needed to run back inside and lock the door.

The Boy wheezed as Dad threw himself against the glass from the outside, yelling every possible threat at his son. The door wasn't that strong, and he knew he didn't have much time. The Boy fell to his knees by his grandmother, feeling for her pulse. She was breathing normal so he ran to the back room, praying with everything he had for just a little more strength. With Dad's shouting getting louder, and the sound of glass cracking, The Boy picked up the phone and dialed an ambulance with shaking fingers. By the time they picked up, there came the sharp clinking of glass shattering and showering the front of the shop.

"What is your emergency?"

"It's my grandmother!!" The Boy shrieked into the speaker, gasping and gripped his chest. Heavy footsteps approached through the kitchen.

"Sir, it sounds like you're having trouble breathing. Please calm down. Can you tell me your name or where you are??"

"Just, trace this call!" the teen shouted as Dad strode into the room. "My grandmother's hit her head, she's unconscious –!!"

The phone slipped out of his hands and hung from the cord, smacking the wall as Dad grabbed his son and slung him roughly over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Blood flew to his head and stars blinded his eyes. Before long icy air hugged him and his father threw him into the snowy street. The last thing the child remembered was the sound of his skull smacking the brick pavement before blackness took him.

When he came to, Dad was setting him on his feet on the sidewalk outside the apartment building. It was pitch dark all around aside from the cold glow of a couple scattered lampposts. Steady snowfall soaked his bare head and torso wrapped in a thin sweater. The sound of sirens blared from the direction of the bakery and the teen inwardly thanked the gods.

Dad unlocked the outer doors. He took a step in. The Boy breathed fine now but swayed on his feet, clutching his limp arm with a far off agonized expression. He didn't speak a word. Neither did his father. It took a minute before it registered that this was the part where he was supposed to get punished. Since the city closed up the entrance to the forest, Dad wouldn't be making him spend the night in the cellar again. But no matter – the man surely had plenty of time to conjure up something fitting when he was carrying his faint son all the way from the bakery to here.

He watched the back of Dad's shoes until the man slowly turned to face him.

His eyes slowly lifted and through the hair sticking to his face he saw a look in his father's eyes he'd never seen before. The look was not anger, it wasn't even satisfaction, but a kind of mixture of the two. The rest of the neighborhood slept around them, the snow all around blanketing a total hush. In the end there was no explanation needed when Dad slowly backed inside and closed the door on the youth. The lock clanked noisily sealed from the inside. The Boy didn't need to yank on the door. He knew the whole building was locked now. Dad still had the satchel which held The Boy's key and inhaler. He'd left his coat, hat, and skateboard at Heavenlee. Leaving his kid out all night might not have seemed a smart choice for a man who was supposedly coveting The Boy; but the child knew better. This was a premeditated punishment: Dad knew he couldn't get far. Leaving him alone like this was more humiliating than any forced restraint could be. It emphasized how helpless the sickly child was, unable to even walk back and grab his coat to keep warm for the night; for if he were to attempt that walk at this point, with his luck he'd pass out halfway there in the street and get run over.

The Boy turned to the slumbering neighborhood, unable to see twenty yards in front of himself. A single streetlight beside the post box was his only friend in the density of the cloudy snowfall. What irony. Maybe it would be just enough light to chase off the monsters for one night.

The Boy shuffled slowly, trying to embrace the blazing pain shooting through every nerve in his arm. When he came to the box, he saw through the glare in the frosted glass a single letter in his and Dad's slot. But this one, unlike the old letters, had The Boy's name openly and proudly written on the front in Mom's beautiful handwriting. How lucky it was that it had gotten delivered later today than when Dad picked up the mail this morning. What might it say? Maybe it was a happy birthday wish preparing him for the big surprise party that was supposed to be at Heavenlee tonight. Maybe it could say this. Maybe it could say that. There was no point in wondering. Dad had changed the combination and the child had no key to get it out.

The Boy fell to his knees and welcomed the tears that hadn't been safe to let loose until now. Scooting to the side of the concrete and pulling his sleeves over his fingers, he wiped some snow off the side of the box so he could lay his head down. As he did, he revealed the sharpie scribbles I had made a couple weeks prior.

"Yatogami, at your service! Call this number to have any problem solved for the low low price of just five yen!"

He laughed at my ad, believing in his heart that not even a god could solve a single one of his problems.

He tried to sit back and let it sink in that he was homeless for the night. For in the middle of trying to solve the mystery of his mother and sister's death and dealing with Granny who'd probably be unconscious all night at least, the police would surely have no time for The Boy. No one was coming back for him tonight. The only thing that sank through his skin was the frigid teeth of ice against his back. He could feel the closeness of that damn unreachable letter.

Closing his eyes he welcomed the chills that wracked his body, so thinly wrapped in holey jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, his toes wet from melted snow soaking through his tattered sneakers. Letting out a hard, heavy breath, he finally released the full dam building behind his eyes. One tear came, and the rest followed in quick succession. They came and came until his cheeks were red and raw and frozen.

Before he fell asleep however, he did find a single comfort for the night: another stray of the neighborhood looking for warmth. The gray old cat leapt up into The Boy's lap and snuggled down contentedly. He stroked her snow-sprinkled coat and she vibrated into his abdomen, a strange mixture between a purr and a shiver. There was a cold lamppost above his head to light his nightmares and a warm kitty to bury his red nose in. He convinced himself these were the only comforts he ever could have wished for and relished them. Squeezing the feline in a tight hug, he cried himself into a much needed sleep, believing in his heart that this was all a big bad dream and that tomorrow he'd have the best birthday of his life with Mom, Big Sis, and Granny.

_To be continued..._


	15. Chapter 14 - “Smothering”

When the morning light reflecting off the snow and through the window finally brightened enough to wake The Boy's swollen eyelids, he found himself in his father's arms. Dad's wrath must have finally cooled off enough to allow just enough sympathy to make him fetch his son out of the blanket of snow beside the red post box. In the teen's bedroom now, the parent lowered The Boy onto his futon. The child may as well have been sleeping still for he sat up with all the strength of a wilted flower as the man helped him out of his wet frozen clothes and into some dry pajamas – a thermal shirt, some sweatpants and thick socks. When he was laid down again under the covers, Dad left the room. All the while neither spoke a word.

Though the air around was warm, The Boy lay motionless, convulsing with shivers. His frail body had yet to thaw at the core. His fingers and nose were purple from frost nibbling them all night, and his cheeks felt like what he imagined shaved ice would. And his head! The bubble of fevered heat threatened to bursts his skull from the inside like a balloon.

His sinuses too numb to feel the impending tingle, a shocking sneeze burst from him, searing his insides on its way out. The coughs that followed the sudden exertion only worsened the ache, each one echoing a rattling noise deep in his chest. It was hard to make them stop.

Dad walked in again this time with a bowl of water, a rag and some bandages. Crouching beside The Boy, the phone in his pocket buzzed another text alert.

"Dammit, Akitake-kun." He growled under his breath.

The parent was clearly as tense and agitated as ever for the looming threats of Goto-san. But the dark eyes were empty and null as he doctored the sick teen. First he dried his son's wet face, his movements stiff and quick. A couple times The Boy thought he felt a tremor in his father's hard hands, one of which still carrying a scar from his own teeth that night he got locked in the cellar.

The Boy opened his mouth to speak and his voice rang hoarse. "Is-is she okay?"

Dad dunked the rag in water and aggressively wrung it out.

"Is she okay??" The teen repeated firmly.

Chewing his cheek, the other took his time replying. "The hospital called. She just got out of surgery for a fracture in the skull. Said they got her right in time; should be fine soon as she wakes up."

A bit of the concrete stress on The Boy's heavy chest chipped away.

"When will she wake up?"

Dad shrugged and that was the end of the conversation when he dropped the frigid wet rag on the kid's forehead. The Boy hissed through chattering teeth as his parent pressed it closer to his flesh. He begged him to take it away and let him warm up a little.

"You want the fever to go away or not?" Dad's voice maintained monotony. "I put your inhaler on the desk there. Use it."

The Boy knew that thing was half empty already. As much as his lungs were burning right now, it wouldn't last but a few hours.

He hadn't tried to move his left arm yet this morning and as Dad lifted it he was excruciatingly reminded why. It was frozen to the shattered core. Rolling the bandages around it tightly, the man made him a makeshift cast.

"I think it's broken…" The teen muttered. Dad didn't seem to hear him.

When Dad finished doctoring, he made to take the things back to the kitchen but before standing shot a careful glance at his son's face. The Boy didn't cower from it or look away, so it was the father who edgily cut his gaze elsewhere, briskly making for the door.

Dad's vigilance was aimed at him. The Boy had never seen his father this uncomfortable after they'd been in a fight. Normally he'd be asking for an apology, or telling him it was all for his own good, or making sure he'd learned his lesson. Not today. Images of his father's tearful hysteria last night still shone vivid in his mind, and maybe in Dad's too. Seeing the man so terrified of his own vulnerability pinched back to life the smidgen of pity had found for his miserable dad last night. He'd lost his wife, his daughter, his money, and was getting death threats every few minutes. And now, after eight years of being in perfect control, he'd lost custody of the last thing he had power over. After a lifetime of forcing that rage, that festering poison on others so he wouldn't have to feel it himself, The Boy could only imagine how bitter this pill was to swallow.

The man made his way out of the room, stepping out the door. Before it closed shut,

"Dad, do you love me??"

Rounding slowly without looking back Dad replied with feign confusion, "…Of course."

The Boy's eyes begged his father to meet his gaze. He wanted to question "Why don't you show it like other parents? Like Ryuuji-san's dad?" but decided against it. There was most likely no more of an answer for why Dad was the way he was any more than there was an answer for the same about The Boy.

"I'm sure when you were my age you never planned on hurting your family like this." The Boy rasped, "…I'm sure you would have hated to see yourself doing to me what my grandfather did to you."

Finally Dad's eyes magnetized to his son's. There was no crinkle in his prematurely lined brow, nor hateful frown at the teen's audacity. There was just a deep disgust in his glare at the mention of Grandfather.

"I really did want to make you proud, Dad." The Boy continued, excruciatingly sitting up on his good arm. "And I've never wanted to leave you…I know you don't want to be alone… but… I…"

_"I couldn't stop loving my family just 'cause you told me to."_

"…You listen, here." Dad's voice rolled from his throat, a raw mixture of anger and sorrow. "I am not…afraid to be alone. Your grandfather was a fool. He was a fool and disrespectful, and I will not be disrespected, belittled, or blamed any longer."

He glowered at the floor as he spoke so the teen could see only the side of his face as the prematurely weathered-looking eyes grew shimmery.

"I deserve respect…" he softly but urgently justified himself, nodding, like he was satisfied with the reassurance. "I have earned respect. My wife refused to see that and got what she deserved. They all deserved it…especially that brat of a girl… And your grandmother would keel over on that hospital bed too if she knew what was good for her."

Silence reigned for a second. "…You know, Dad, it's okay to admit you cared at some point."

The parent insisted, passionate in denial with fist trembling even as he shook it at The Boy. "I could not care less if they live or die…! All I care about is that you belong to me. My job is not to make you like me, or give you a sheltered life full of pretty lies. My job is to see that you learn discipline! I'll gladly sooner see my whole family rot before I will be challenged!!"

That sentence burst from the man's lips along with the reservoir behind the dam of his eyes. He started at the feeling of droplets on his cheeks and hurriedly wiped them, fury cloaking his countenance.

The Boy was now aware of his own eyewater. Whether it was from the steaming fever or the clemency now relieving the hatred he'd clung to, he couldn't tell.

"Dad… I f–" he forced the words through airless breath. "I for…forgive you."

But his father turned his back and made for the door like he son had never said a thing.

"Or maybe," he spun round before the door closed behind him, "Maybe if you want to be with them so badly I'll just let you rot in here too? Would you like that?"

The Boy's lips quivered and he had no strength left to try stopping it.

"Or better yet," his father went on with a relentless, wicked bellow. "I'll pray to the gods for your salvation just like that old hag did! Maybe the maniac from the airport will come for you and your grandmother so you can all be one big happy family rotting together!!"

When the door slammed closed it trembled the walls. The weight of the blow barged The Boy's heart in. With eyes pinched shut, sobs boxed his lungs one by one. What a mercy it was he didn't have to know then that that was the last conversation he'd ever have with Dad.

While the hiccups crumpled his ribcage, the coughs returned, this time forcing mucus tinged with blood up his throat and onto the futon beneath him.

_"Please, Dad…!"_ he collapsed face down in his pillow, _"I need a doctor…"_

Now, pneumonia could have been treatable, even with his weak lungs, if Dad had taken The Boy to see a doctor that morning. But whether or not the man was serious about his willingness to let his son die alone in there, it didn't matter. He was a sitting duck, waiting for the police to realize he was withholding The Boy against his will. As soon as Granny woke she would explain what happened at the bakery last night, and when she did he might get a warning or a day to repent and turn himself in before the police would come to settle things by force. Not to mention Goto-san's death threats still lurked around every corner. No, there would be no discussion of The Boy seeing a doctor. Dad needed something to control: no one was to leave or enter this apartment until he got help from his lawyer.

The minutes, hours, and eventually the day passed for the ailing child alone in his room. The fever swiftly sucked all the coolness from the dishrag on his head and kept raging higher, the shivers never giving his body a break. All this, even the constant piercing ache of his fractured arm, paled in comparison to the surging agony accompanying even the slightest breath. Though he tried to be judicious in his usage, the inhaler was emptied by early afternoon as he had dreaded. Without it he may as well have been left breathing through a soaked sponge.

After falling in and out of sleep all day, he finally passed out around 11:00 that night and stayed in the relief of a very agitated slumber until morning. When he woke, his clothes were stuck to his skin with sweat. Dad must have known he'd thrown up everything in his gut yesterday because found the puddles of yesterday's vomit cleaned up and a mug full of ramen at the edge of his bed waiting for him. Next to it was a larger bowl he guessed he was supposed to retch into since he clearly couldn't manage the journey all the way to the bathroom. Starving, he all but swallowed the whole cup of noodles, steaming as it was. But sadly that too made a projectile reappearance into the barf bowl a few coughing fits later.

All the while The Boy kept telling himself it would pass eventually. It had to. If he didn't get better, who'd help Granny recover?

. . .

Who knows how many hours later, he sat on the edge of his futon retching in to the bowl in his lap. By now his stomach had nothing left to vomit but the bile and bloody phlegm that was causing the nausea in the first place. After what felt like a never ending suffocation, the gagging finally subsided and allowed a few unsatisfactory gasps of air. These morphed into a burning pant that lasted for a while before gradually slowing back to a near halt. These fits and fleets of oxygen intake had been coming and going all day; he'd already passed out twice just lying in bed. Over the chattering of his teeth, the stinging of his chilled skin, and the panic further infecting lungs, he completely disregarded his dead left arm lying next to him with bandages all but unraveled. Already his body was full of lead, his consciousness hanging by a thread.

Red dusk sunbeams slowly crept through the glass doors to his balcony. Oh, how he wished to get up, to go out and lean over the side of the railing and observe his dismal neighborhood, to take one last ride on his skateboard through the cracked streets. Oh, how he wished his body would do what he wanted like it used to. To think, he thought he understood the feeling of imprisonment before.

The last thing he remembered was staring out that window. Next thing he knew he was waking up again.

He'd lost count of how many times he'd done that – blacking out on a whim and waking up after who knows how long. This time the grogginess lasted only a split second upon waking, sent fleeing by a sharp chill tickling down his spine. The last reddish light of day was long gone. Not even the moonlight could reach him through the snow clouds outside the glass. All was pitch black.

_"No…Not this. Not now."_

He willed his torso to lift but his limbs had stopped responding hours ago. Through one arm seared a fire splitting every nerve in his fractured bone; in the other were the pins and needles of his fevered flesh. Every feeble inch of him wanted to reach up to the lamp on the nightstand just above his head. It took a gross amount of effort to throw numb fingers up to it, feeling around blindly until they found the string. He tugged it. A click sounded. The darkness remained.

He yanked it again and again to no avail. Through the shadows he spotted Dad standing in the corner of the room. He had just unplugged the lamp. The man threw the cord down on the floor and stepped on it, its metal prongs bending every which way as if an elephant had smashed them.

The Boy's vocals were muted as he tried to cry and plead mercy. Unable to hear his child, Dad strode out of the room. Behind him was left a shadow. Yes, a distinguishable shadow within total darkness, the densest dark the child had ever seen, and it was in the silhouette of a person. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the second glance was worse than the first. It was bigger now. It made no attempt to approach him, sitting still as a statue in the corner. Watching him. He couldn't take his eyes off of it. There was a mutual understanding between The Boy and this thing; they both knew what was coming. They both waited for the inevitable.

Of course, the kid didn't know it was a Grim Reaper. But usually humans that have been targeted by one can sense its purpose. That's why, since his soul was clearly wavering on the edge of the Near Shore and leaning ever away from it, he was allowed a glance at the Far Shore now. Here, he saw the true monsters lurking in the dark that had fueled his nyctophobia all his life.

All around him, out of thin air burst small bat-like creatures. They filled and swarmed his room until some of them got close enough for him to see every detail of their deformed bodies. Like bags of sharp bones held together only by leathery orange skin, their sinewy wings made a squeaking sound with each flap while from their tiny jaws issued the most jagged screeching ever heard. Peppered in the shrieking was every harmful word ever uttered to him being echoed all at once. With the surrounding ayakashi enveloping him, his heart raced harder until it threatened to swell and burst right there in his chest. Again he tried to cry. This was just what the ayakashi had come to feast on. As they grew larger, so did his fear; and as his fear grew the more they feasted. The walls were beginning ever so slowly to close in on him.

Then someone turned on the lights. The ayakashi vanished and the bedroom was back to normal. The Boy opened his eyes again and lifted his head. His door had been opened and crouching beside him was the baker, bandages still crowning her head.

"Granny!" his body melted with relief.

The old woman brushed his hair out of his eyes and looked him over with sheer joy and relief. She bent and pressed a firm kiss on his hot forehead.

"B-but you were in the hospital!" The Boy beamed breathlessly despite his confusion.

"Eh. I'm a fast healer." She said wryly like her injury was no more than a paper cut.

"H-How did you get in?" he asked, wide eyed. "What about Dad??"

"Don't you worry about that now, everything is taken care of. Right now we have to focus on getting you better." She smiled and her voice dropped to an elated but solemn whisper. "But first, I have great news…! They were wrong, sweetie. They were mistaken when identifying the bodies…"

He searched her tears of joy but his wilted brain couldn't grasp her hint until in his peripheral vision there stood two figures in the doorway. Before he knew it one of them had thrown herself at him, crying his name and clinging to him for dear life. The Boy couldn't see anything through her arms which she wrapped about him tightly, but her hug felt just the same as it did when he last saw her, when he was six and she was twelve. The young woman attached to him gave him a generous kiss on his cheek and sat up a little. Their eyes locked and his face finally lit up. She laughed with relief as he recognized her. His mouth moved to form her name and Big Sis's face spilled with joy.

He gaped, he stammered, he tried to question but couldn't get anything to erupt from his throat happily constricted with tears.

"We made it." Big Sis flashed a smile, just as mature and solemn as it always had been. "Of course we did. We would never let ourselves be thwarted so easily after waiting so long to see you."

She sat up and turned her gaze behind her where Granny moved back to the door.

There, looking paler than he probably did, was Mom. The old woman had her arms around her from the side, as if to hold her up. His mother's bony hand tightly sealed her mouth as a look sadder than tears streamed from her eyes. Slowly the purse fell from her shoulder and she stumbled to the side of her boy, falling on her knees. The Boy opened his heart to accept her embrace. In those split seconds he saw every letter she ever sent, and every loving word, and every promise finally fulfilled. His eyes fell shut and he waited for the hug he'd dreamed of for eight years.

Instead came the embrace of chills pulsing his body again, the pain searing his arm again, his head swelling with the dangerously raging fever again. His skin stung and his stomach churned again. His chest ached with more than mere fluid on the lungs as the hallucination vanished and everything was undeniably real again.

It was dark. He had never mustered the strength to turn on the lamp. Dad had never unplugged it. Granny hadn't actually been here. And the police were not actually wrong about his mother's and sister's deaths. He was still afraid of dark; he didn't want the ayakashi to come back, but his arms were still dead weights. If he tried to turn on the lamp, what if Dad came to unplug it and the whole thing started again? Losing them once was bad enough. The second time was just cruel. A third might be the last straw. Yet one thing was left that he knew was no hallucination. It sat in the corner still as ever, waiting patiently for what he knew all too well was right around the corner.

"…Go away." He croaked at the thing.

The shadow didn't give so much as a cock of the head to show any sign of listening to The Boy.

_"Get away from me…!"_ The Boy pleaded with it. _"I'm not ready to go."_

The Grim Reaper remained unmoving. So The Boy's eyes ran with cold tears that pricked his tender skin as they flowed. His body convulsing in sobs, he released a long loud wail. He noticed his throat burning when he did. He did it again. And again.

Finally, some pain he could control.

_To be continued..._


	16. Chapter 15 - “May Our Fates Intertwine”

It's hard to recall the details of his death through his eyes; mainly because he was barely cognitive to perceive let alone remember anything by the time it finally happened. But now I know him, I could never forget my own memories of it as Hiiro and I had watched.

. . .

On the third morning of The Boy's infirmity, I happened to be staying with my father again, playing the role of his puppet, getting my fix, and hating every second that reminded me of my dependence on him. But at the time I was getting tired of begging on the streets, so when my old man handed me a bag of money that morning telling me I had a murder request from a man named Akitake Goto, I wasn't eager to do his work, but didn't think twice.

Besides, after what he'd gotten me to do to the airport a few days ago I could hardly turn my nose up at something as small as killing one man for the sake of a revenge request.

Taking Hiiro with me, I teleported to the address Goto-san had given us. Solidifying in the crackled snow-blanketed streets of a suburban neighborhood, I recognized it vaguely. I had been there just a few days ago. I remembered thinking how many poor people around here might be in need of my cheap services. At the far corner of the block, I remembered watching a forlorn-looking blonde haired boy leaning over the side of his apartment balcony. Seeing the ayakashi fluttering around his apartment, I had decided to advertise my number on the side of the collective mail box for that building, hoping he or another of these bums might see it and maybe I could scrape up just enough cash to get myself out of my father's hands. I didn't think anyone would see it though, for it had been snowing non-stop that whole winter and I knew my little scribble would soon be buried. But, sure enough as Hiiro and I approached the apartments on the end of the block and passed the post box, I noted out of the side of my eye that my graffiti ad was exposed. Snow had been brushed off the side of the box like someone had been trying to read it.

My heart skipped a beat at the thought. What if, any second now, a human called on me to walk their dog, or clean their house, or repair their bike and I missed the opportunity because I was out there killing a man for someone else's vengeance?

"We're on the top floor, apartment 13c." said Hiiro, rousing me from my wishful thinking. Obviously thrilled for the job, she added, "He said this one should put up a good fight, too."

The phantoms I had seen circling one of the balconies the other day had multiplied by tens. Little to medium sized ayakashi sat outside the same balcony I'd see the kid on the other day. Other, larger ones barged the adjacent window of the same apartment. Something told me that one might happen to be apartment 13c.

But I couldn't teleport to a place I hadn't been and couldn't picture in my mind. So, calling Hiki and grasping her hilt, I tightened the belt of the black kimono Father had lent me and waited for an opening. Soon enough, the front doors of the building swung gently open as a woman stepped out and headed for the mailbox. As she moved out I rushed forward and slipped inside. She made no sound or sign of having felt my presence.

Being near invisible to humans; how convenient it is for the work my Father assigns me... I hate it.

The inside of the complex was even drearier than the outside and stunk like moth balls. Swiftly climbing three narrow flights of creaking stairs, being careful not to scrape Hiki's long blade on the walls, my attention was drawn to blue and red flashing lights in my peripheral. Out the window beside me, two police cars drove up and parked in front of the building.

"Goto-san said something about the police probably having a warrant for this man's arrest." Hiiro explained to me internally, "I think he's withholding a kid he doesn't have custody of or something like that. That's why Goto-san wanted us to do it now while he's vulnerable."

"Why don't we let the police do their job?" I said, still half-annoyed that I was doing my dad's work.

"You know why we can't do that." She said curtly, "Goto-san petitioned his death, not his arrest. It'll be a lot easier now than to try and do it once he's in jail. So let's hurry!"

We made it to the top floor hall branching into three apartment doors, crammed together like cheap hotel rooms. The last door at the end of the hall was our destination. I didn't have to read the address; the cacophonous roars of the thriving phantoms within were directive enough.

Feasting ayakashi roaring noisily on the other side, I loudly rapped my knuckles on the door. For a while no one answered. Then, incessantly without stopping I kept knocking. Eventually I heard heavy and hurried footsteps falling on the thin floor from within, but they weren't approaching the door. He was trying to pretend no one was home, I thought.

"This is the police!" I shouted through the wood. "Open up!"

Still no response.

"Suit yourself." I muttered, bracing myself.

Tensing my whole body, I used my shoulder as a battering ram and was surprised at how easily the lock caved and flew open, like it had been broken into before. Shoving the door closed and locked behind me, I was met first with the realization of ayakashi filling – and I do mean filling – the small house. Hundreds of their eyes turned to me where they gathered somewhere in the hallway opposite. Scampering rodent sized ones with massive jaws in the kitchen, bat-like squealing ones swarming the ceiling, slithering ones that circled the den, and the ones watching behind corners, every one of them stared into my soul and unanimously uttered,

"SMeLLs GOoD...!"

But before any of this registered, I was met by tall and light-haired man who looked to be in his forties, armed already with a handgun at his side. He glared at me, confused like he was expecting something else.

"Who the hell are you?!" his tension warned me not to come any nearer. Even so, his voice trembled and he continually glanced to Hiki's shining at my side. "You're not with the police... Goto sent you, didn't he!? Answer me!"

At the sound of his voice raising the ayakashi went nuts, most of them swarming the unsuspecting man, egging him on. But the bats hanging from the ceiling fan dove at me. Taking Hiki quickly, I cut through several at once. They were weak, like the type that would haunt scared little kids. The ayakashi encouraging the man to violence were the strong ones in the room, liked they'd lived here a long time. Those I could believe would belong to a man with the reputation this one apparently had. Those were true monsters seeking to cause a fight between the man and I – ultimately an even greater feast for them. But these little ones swarming me like flies... something was off. These ones couldn't care less about the man, like he wasn't the one who attracted them.

My prey – obviously unable to see the Far Shore demons I was fighting and utterly unaware of his home's infestation – screamed at me as I thinned the horde surrounding me.

I huffed in annoyance, slashing down one of the fatter phantoms. "Fine. I guess you'll have to go first. Your stress is just agitating them anyway."

I lashed for the man, a clean shot. Or it would have been if I didn't have a host of ayakashi blinding me. The man dodged into the kitchenette. At the sight of us fighting the creatures lit up with new arousal, his dogged ones now attacking me too.

"Hiiro!" I cried, "A little help here?!"

My shinki sighed. "You used to be able to handle this like a pro. In just one year without me you've gotten so soft."

"Hiiro!"

A second later, she drew water straight from the faucet of the sink and formed a wave to encircle me. The ayakashi came, and as they drowned I cut them down. One by one they met their watery death and as Hiiro lowered my wave-shield I realized I'd lost sight of my victim.

Then a loud bang. Blood oozed from my bare chest onto my robes.

Gritting my teeth and doubling as the pain set in, I spun round to find the man standing behind the counter still holding the smoking handgun.

"Idiot..." I breathed tersely. Human weapons can't kill gods. The bullet wound, though the drunk man had a lucky aim, would heal soon enough. But that doesn't mean it didn't hurt like a dirty word.

Standing tall despite the hole in my sternum, I swung Hiki back into fighting stance. The man gaped at me like he'd just crapped his pants – I guess he wasn't used to seeing people getting shot in the heart and not dying.

There was a loud knock on the front door.

"It's the police." Hiiro urged me, "Finish him quick."

The man glanced from the door to me, sweat dripping down his face. "No..." he said. "No, you stay away from me! No one is taking him!!"

"I don't want your kid." I said, approaching slowly. "Just you."

"NO!" the man insisted manically, "No one is taking him...!! He belongs to me he stays here!!"

Seeing this guy so desperate to maintain power over his kid reminded me of my own father and I suddenly didn't feel so bad about killing him anymore.

"Any last words for your friend Goto?" I asked.

He cocked the gun again, shakily aiming for my head. "No one is taking my son from me!!!"

We both moved. The bullet was fired. It grazed my ear. I don't remember how I really did it; the movement just came naturally at this point. But before I knew it Hiki dripped red and Yukiné's father was a corpse at my feet, his throat bleeding out into a beige beer-stained carpet.

The remaining ayakashi he had drawn whimpered as they vanished to find another meal. Silence reigned over the crime scene except for the banging of the policemen on the door, demanding the dead man to open up or else be subject to forced removal.

Wiping sweat and a bit of blood off my brow, I noticed a somewhat distant but still near sound of more ayakashi. There weren't any left in the den and kitchen. It was then I saw, at the end of the hallway opposite the front door, one of the two bedroom doors was cracked open. That was where all the littler ayakashi had been gathered when I first came in.

I felt Hiiro's smile. "Good job, Yato. Father will be proud."

"There's still ayakashi in there..." I said absent-mindedly, pointing down the hall, confused and latching onto something to change the subject.

"I guess that's where his kid must be. But Goto-san said we are to leave him alone. Come on, let's get out of the police's way."

Ignoring her, I took a few curious steps towards the hallway.

"Yato, come on!" Hiiro begged me, annoyed. "Father will be waiting for us."

It was too weird, I remember thinking. Ayakashi will always instinctively be drawn to the scent of a god more than they will a human. But I had heard of rare cases when ayakashi will ignore the scent of a god when they've become engrossingly attached to a specific human prey for long periods of time.

I thought, with no little amount of pain, that if Sakura was in my hands instead of Hiiro, she'd tell me to go out of my way to slay the ayakashi before they started tormenting another human. I was debating whether I should stay or leave when my ear was gently tugged. Not a physical draw, but the spiritual whispers of someone praying my name.

I froze. No one had ever prayed to me before... like actually prayed. No one had ever prayed a prayer with their lips and their heart. They only ever called my cell for help with trivial tasks. This was the prayer of a real believer. Since I'd never received one before, don't ask how I knew what it was – gods have strong instincts.

But how, when no one knew my name?

_"Yato-sama..." _said the broken voice, _"Please hear my prayer." _

The kid leaning over the balcony the other day. My advertisement on the post box. My heart skidded.

Almost like a dull ringing growing closer and more piercing, I listened to the voice in my head. There was a long pause like the speaker was waiting for a reply.

_"...Please..." _it finally went on, _"I don't have much to offer... But I do have some money. If you answer my prayer I will pay you back. I'll do anything...!"_

I turned and started making my way down the hall, my instincts knowing exactly where to locate the petitioner.

"Yato!" Hiiro said like she was trying to wake me from a trance. "Leave him; he's none of our business."

_"...Please..." _My worshipper begged me to answer, _"Just let me know you're there...someone... anyone? Please, Yato-sama... Can you even hear me?"_

"I-I can!" I surprised myself when I answered. I didn't mean to say anything, but everything in me felt like the small child I used to be who dreamed of being prayed to like a real god. I couldn't help but reach back. Someone really believed in me as a god.

"Who are you talking to??" asked Hiiro sharply.

"Whoever's behind this door. They are praying to me. I can feel it!"

The stray felt deeply disturbed by this, I could tell. At this point the police finally barged the door down and rushed in to find their criminal slain on the floor. The officers immediately rushed at him, shouting orders at each other and checking his vitals. I grasped the first excuse I could think of.

"Look, the police are blocking the front door anyway." I whispered to her, so the officers wouldn't notice me. "I think the balcony attaches to this room; we'll escape from here."

I knew my time with my mystery worshipper would soon be interrupted by the policemen coming to check on the apparent hostage and if I wanted to see him I needed to be quick. So with that, I pushed through the half-open door, tentative despite my awe and elation, and gingerly closed it behind me.

I don't know what I was expecting, but whatever it was it wasn't this sickening sight. The sunrise through the balcony doors illuminated a decimated form lying on the sheets of a thin futon. A waiflike adolescent. I looked him up at down for a moment as the prayerful seemed to slowly wake from a daze. Beside him lay a grayish and loosely bandaged arm, not even twitching. His overgrown blonde shag stuck greasily to his sweaty forehead. His big eyes sunken into a paper-white face, peeled themselves open. When they fell on me the warm irises went very wide and filled again with a slight vivacity.

The Boy gasped for air, thirsting, "...Yato-sama...?"

Gazing around the room, I saw the most boring kid's bedroom I'd ever seen. It looked like a prison, but maybe I just say that now because I know that to him it was.

Then my eyes landed on it. There in the corner, just out of the light of the windows, sat a Grim Reaper.

I mean, a blind person could see the kid was a goner just by that death rattle in each of his breaths; but really...? A Reaper?

You see, Grim Reapers don't show up for just any death. The presence of one means not only certain death, but a prolonged and foreseeable death. That's why they usually target the elderly – 'cause they're expected to die. But I thought to myself this kid couldn't be out of his preteen years, so he must have been rotting in here for at least a couple days. I'd witnessed the works of Reapers too many times to second guess the situation. I knew there was no doctor or hospital on Earth that could save a soul once it was the fixation of a Grim Reaper. Not because the harvester would kill it, but because it acted as a sign that by fate the sufferer wouldn't get the chance to survive. It dawned on me that if he wouldn't be able to survive even though the police were going to barge in any second and try to save him, then these must be his very last moments.

I didn't have to question how The Boy recognized me, nor the situation at all. Of course he recognized I was a god; humans this close to the Far Shore are always keenly tuned to the supernatural. Which means he was also probably aware of the ayakashi bats swarming him, waiting for him to give into the despair of death. I nodded inwardly to myself. It made sense now, the bat-like ones were summoned by him, not the father, and indeed these ones were utterly engrossed in the dying child. They might not have even noticed my entrance.

"Yato-sama..." the teen gasped elation and relief, "You heard me...!"

As if the smile in the sallow face was poison to them, the bats screeched in agony and imploded one by one.

"Wh-what are they doing?" said Hiiro quietly, watching with me as they too left to find a feast elsewhere, too disappointed in their prey to even notice my shinki and I.

Sure enough The Boy was also wide eyed watching his tormentors vanish.

Amazement wasn't quite the right word to explain my reaction. For a human to have attracted such resolute parasites in the face of death, and then at the sight of my coming to banish them with a single glimpse of hope... I'd never seen anything like it, and to this day still haven't.

His eyes beamed the intensity of his gratitude, falling on me again.

"That wasn't me." I said, with a weird sentiment of pride and faith in humanity again. "...That was all you, kid."

"Yato?" Hiiro insisted, of course still confused. "What happened? Where'd the ayakashi go?"

"He got rid of them." I voiced my thoughts back at her. "He saw me, and had enough hope to scare them away..."

Hiiro was quiet after that, and so was the bitterness I'd been harboring. I made up my mind then to answer this kid's dying wish and then get back to work. My real work: Sakura's work.

The Boy, barely speaking through his labored breathing, tried very hard to thank me. My curiosity won over me, and I crouched beside his head.

"How do you know my name??" I begged.

"I... saw your number." He panted, his eyes now closing, as if he needed to reserve every possible bit of energy. "...On the post box."

His mouth continued to move but words stopped coming out for a second, replaced with rattling gasps. He began coughing wildly so that his whole body convulsed like a rag doll with each heave. It was a few moments before he could speak again.

"I heard...Dad yelling... or was I hallucinating again?"

The Boy's gaze hovered to Hiki, bloody at my side, and then at the blood sprayed all over my chest and robes. Horror knotted his already twisted face. From his expression I could tell he would have just gone deathly pale if he wasn't already.

"Oh... oh god...!" The situation must have been starting to make itself plain as The Boy's gray lips quivered while he strained for words. "I... I didn't...mean for...!"

The Boy thought I killed his father because of his prayer for help. He was a picture of confusion and regret, helpless. In my centuries of experience, I had come to recognize this picture. The picture of a human who would never hurt a fly. The picture of tainted innocence. The picture of Sakura when I used her to kill that man by the riverbank.

I quickly mustered the most comforting lie I could manage. "No. I didn't kill him because of your prayer. What you heard... was just your imagination. This is blood from something else. Don't worry, everything is resolved between Goto-san and your father."

The child lay back with peaceful relief while his chapped lips still tried and failed to sound. But no sound was needed for I could hear this prayer of gratitude just as clearly as the former.

_"Thank god!"_

After a few moments of silence, I watched the shadows of the snowflakes outside rain over his face. For a second I thought he had finally breathed his last, but then he drew another painful gasp and looked at me, stirring uncomfortably.

"Y-You are real, aren't you?" he croaked. "I'm not h-hallucinating again?"

I set Hiki down on the side of the futon, placing my hand on The Boy's shoulder. It wasn't necessarily a comforting gesture; just to let him know I was real and tangible.

"I am here." I said firmly.

If only Sakura were here, I had thought. She would have been so proud.

But at my words The Boy could just as easily have been hopeful as fearful. His eyes lazily drifted to the ceiling. "So... then it's real too?"

I didn't have to ask. I feared this was the heart of his prayer.

"Yes." I said, also firmly, but trying my best not to sound unkind. "Yes, the Grim Reaper is also real."

I could tell he wanted to ask more but couldn't manage it.

"It won't hurt you." I reassured him and braved a smile. "It's here to help you. And so am I: Yatogami, at your service."

My heart raced. I already knew what he was going to ask.

The Boy's eyes filled with childlike, horrified tears. "Could...Could you...tell it to go away... please?"

The teen struggled to lift his head off the pillow and begged with tear-filled eyes, his face contorted.

"You're a god aren't you? Make it go away."

"..."

"Please, tell it I... not ready to die." The Boy gasped. "I'm not ready. I-I... I still haven't decided... what I wanna be when I grow up... I still haven't told...Ryuuji-san that I..."

He didn't try to finish that sentence. My heart ached in frustration for being unable to answer a prayer. But I was a god who took lives, not saved them.

"...I'm sorry." I whispered.

And so a single tear sprang up in The Boy's red eyes which he pinched closed. His face shriveled up even more, and he began to sob like a baby unable to move and begging someone to hold it. The fingers of The Boy's right hand balled the covers. With eyes still clamped tight, as if trying to shut out his pain, he breathed again, if you could say he was breathing at all at this point. Slowly, deliberately, his face and body relaxed. A large shining tear fell down the side of his temple as he opened his eyes to the ceiling again.

"Okay..." he rasped. "...Okay..."

Each breath was a long pause that made time slow. Any second now the police would realize there was no saving the man and come to find the kid. If I was going to do anything to help him it needed to be quick.

Then the child mumbled something about his father.

"It's okay." he seemed to be whispering to no one in particular. "It's okay, I did good. I wasn't a coward... I was brave and stood up to Dad... I didn't deny Mom, or reject Granny. If I hadn't let Dad do this to me... Granny would be dead instead. So...so... it was worth being killed for... right???"

I watched his face for a moment, speechless even to my own mind. He was dying... because he stood up to his dad...??

"Yes." I don't remember making the decision to talk, but the word of affirmation left my tongue nonetheless. Though I didn't know it yet, in that moment I really believed what his grandmother said about souls with the same scars. "Yes, you did good."

A light of hope glistened in the teen's face. He looked to me like he had forgotten I was there. Then the purest smile I'd ever seen, ever greater than his elation thinking I could save him, melted his frozen face.

"At least...I don't have to die alone... Thank you, Yato-sama."

I hadn't heard that phrase been spoken so heartfelt since Sakura died.

Now he asked me if I could grant a different prayer instead. I nodded eagerly.

"M-my grandma..." he said, "She owns the bakery in the alley... but she's in the hospital right now... Can you... give her a message?"

"Okay."

"Tell her... I love her..." his voice hitched and he coughed a few more times. "And... I'm sorry I won't be coming in on M-Monday... to help."

I grinned, thinking what a great shinki he would make for some lucky god. "That I can do."

"There is..." The Boy said, "One other thing I know you could do for me... please?"

"Your wish is my command." I said.

_"...Spare me." _He prayed from his heart into my mind, his body clinging to the last embers of life and unable to force the words out of his mouth. _"I can't breath. It hurts. Everything hurts and I'm so tired. Please, Yato-sama, if I'm going to go, I just want it to be fast." _

With a solemn nod, my fingers groped for Hiki again. "That I can do..."

Standing, I felt Hiiro sharpen her blade; I'm sure she wanted to get it over with as much as I did, but for different reasons.

"This will only hurt for a second." I said softly, straddling one foot on either side of the paralyzed teen, slowly lowering the sword until she kissed his heaving chest.

"Your prayer has been heard loud and clear." I started to press Hiki through his fragile sternum. "...May our fates intertwine."

I noted how horribly similar his tearstained face looked to Sakura's when she too asked me to mercy-kill her all those years ago.

The Boy's hand only now found the strength to move, reaching up and grabbing the sword threatening to save him from the suffering. Though his eyes thanked me for my act of compassion, his weak fingers struggled against my strength.

With an apology in my heart for being unable to answer his first prayer, I gave a shove, gentle but more than enough to surpass his feeble hand trying to stop the blade. The point of the weapon met the bedding beneath him. A brief fountain of scarlet warmth oozed from The Boy's chest where Hiki reached in to stop his heart. The last hint of life faded from the flaming irises as the black of his pupils enveloped them.

Blood coated The Boy's gray lips as they uttered their very last. "...I'm sorry...Granny."

His hand stopped pushing against the blade and his gargled breathing slowed to a stop. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the Grim Reaper shift. Having harvested it what it came to collect, it stood and vanished.

By the time the police came to the rescue, the ailing child was long gone, waiting, hovering like a snowflake beside that red post box in hopes of adoption by some stray god that might pass by.

_The End _

_My sincerest thanks to the readers that saw this story through to the end. Your interest in my work keeps me going _


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